Hiding
by sydedalus
Summary: A series of vignettes that take House and Stacy’s relationship as its focal point. Set during and after that relationship. Lots of HouseWilson friendship. COMPLETE.
1. On the Roof

**Title:** Hiding  
**Author:** Sy Dedalus  
**Pairing:** House/Stacy, House/Wilson friendship  
**Rating:** T, TV-14, PG-13  
**Summary:** A series of vignettes set during andafter House and Stacy's relationship.Lots of House/Wilson friendship. Probably some Cuddy. Maybe some ducklings.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters aren't mine. They belong to David Shore, Fox, etc. I'm not making any money. Please don't sue. My cat likes his home.

**A/N:** So I probably shouldn't start another fic when I've got three in progress already, but what the hey. These vignettes aren't necessarily in order and most will feature the more negative aspects of a long-term relationship. Wilson and his relationship trouble will be here too. I'm trying to keep these pieces to 500 words and they'll be loosely connected to one another at best. Please let me know what you think!

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**On the Roof**

**April 1995**

House sighed inwardly and exhaled smoke into the New Jersey twilight. She would smell smoke on him and give him one of those looks—_if _he got home before midnight. If she got home before midnight, too, for that matter. If he saw her at all tonight.

He pulled his overcoat more tightly around his body—the April wind didn't quit—and took another long, satisfying drag. God, he hated fighting. Six months together and he felt like they'd spent half that time fighting.

But the make-up sex. Oh yes, the make-up sex. And besides that, he'd never connected with anyone like he connected with her. It was so _good_.

Except when they fought.

He exhaled and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the few feet of concrete that kept him from a long fall. The people on the ground: ants. The night shift had just come on and the stragglers were hurrying into the building while the last of the departing day shift shuffled away. Tiny ants rushing toward other tiny ants. His first impulse was to start dropping loose change, but instead he took another drag and flicked the ash over the edge.

The night shift already. He fingered the pack he'd bought this morning through the lining of his coat. Two left. Even when he'd been a smoker, he had never smoked an entire pack in one day. Ugh. She was driving him to it.

His gaze shifted to the quad. No students playing Ultimate Frisbee or touch football this late in the day. The entry way was empty too. Everyone was somewhere except him.

What to do…

He could stay here. He had patients. There was never a shortage of patients. His favorite couch had migrated to his office when she'd moved in: he had a place to crash. He could buy a bottle of something and pick up dinner and a Playboy. A big, stinky cigar too. Which he'd have to smoke on the roof, dammit. It would be bachelorhood all over again. But he didn't really want that for a second night in a row.

Go home? She'd be there eventually. It was his apartment, but when they fought he was always the one who became temporarily homeless. He wasn't ready to apologize. He didn't have anything to apologize for. He was still angry. No.

Check with Wilson? Wilson was sniffing up someone new while he waited for his divorce to go through. House had spent more than a few nights on Wilson's couch (or his floor, depending on how late they got to the apartment), but if Wilson was out tonight with her he wouldn't want a third wheel.

All the same, it was a Wednesday. A night of friendly commiseration was better than a night in his office. He'd check with Wilson.

He took the last long drag left, dropped the cigarette, and stamped it out with his foot. Was it worth it, all this fighting and smoking and standing alone on the roof in the wind?

He started toward the entrance to the stairs, thinking.

Yeah, it was.

For now.


	2. Lucky Devil

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Last Scorpion - thanks for the review.Cheers!

Reviews make me smile.

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**Lucky Devil**

**June1995**

"Is it her?" House asked suspiciously as Wilson answered the phone. "I'm not here."

He sprang off the couch and skittered to Wilson's kitchenette, as if putting more distance between himself and the phone would make a difference.

"Hi Stacy," Wilson said, rolling his eyes at House. "Yes, he's here."

"Bastard!" House growled from behind the counter.

Wilson listened for a moment then looked at House. "She says come home."

"I'm not here!" House hissed and ducked under the counter again.

"He says he's not here," Wilson said. He listened again, nodding, and smiled wickedly. "I know, he _is _being ridiculous."

House appeared long enough to stick his tongue out at Wilson.

Wilson's smile became evil as he turned away from House. "You say his performance has been wanting lately? I'm sorry to hear that." He paused. "Faking?" he said in a scandalized voice, "Really? Do you want to talk about it?"

House leapt across the room and snatched the phone from him.

"Stacy," he barked into the receiver.

He shot daggers at Wilson, who was shaking with laughter, when he heard nothing but a dial tone.

"She hung up a while ago," Wilson said through a guffaw.

"I gathered that," House grumbled. He threw the phone at Wilson and flopped down on the couch, mumbling to himself.

Wilson snickered then sobered up. "Go home, House," he said. "Buy her some flowers—maybe an expensive bottle of wine, whatever she likes—swallow your pride and apologize." He clapped House on the shoulder. "You'll thank me in the morning."

"If you're so good at this, why are you divorced?" House mumbled as he got to his feet and found his wallet and keys.

"I can't find one person who has all of the qualities I want," Wilson said with a shrug. "But you." He pointed a finger at House. "You're lucky. Act like it."

House grumbled something as he went toward the door. Wilson smiled forlornly as the door closed: House didn't know how good he had it. His smile faded and he glanced at the phone. Maybe it wasn't too late to reconcile.

No. It _was _too late. He turned the volume up on the television and started working on the beer House had left behind.


	3. Impulse Control

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm happy to know you're willing to go along for the ride – makes the writing more fun. Cheers!

**Content Warning:** Much sexual innuendo in this chapter. (More than usual.)

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**Impulse Control**

**August 1995**

"I thought you hated your relatives," House whined, squirming uncomfortably.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Stacy whispered harshly, "I liked this aunt." She smacked him as best she could without attracting more attention. "Now shut up, people are starting to stare."

House pulled a face and slumped in the pew. His suit was so itchy. His tie was on too tight. The room smelled like old people and feet. Some idiot with badly groomed ear hair was giving a rambling, incoherent eulogy.

"Do we have to go to the burial?" House whispered. "I'm hungry."

Stacy rummaged through her purse and shoved half a pack of mint lifesavers into his hand. "_Be quiet!_" she hissed.

House sullenly popped two into his mouth and sat still for a grueling five minutes before he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

_Funerals are a waste of life_, he thought as he washed his hands. He and Stacy could make _much_ better use of this time. He smirked to himself. Suddenly he knew exactly how to get out of going to the burial.

He waited until he heard the organ blast out marching music for the pall bearers before snuck up behind Stacy, who had just started down a side aisle toward the door, and pulled her to him.

Judging by her reaction, she felt every inch of what he wanted her to feel.

"Greg, you're horrible!" she whispered springing from his grasp.

"I got bored," he said. "I'm only human."

She narrowed her eyes and crowded him against a column, trying to keep their exchange from her relatives. "I can't believe you!" she hissed.

House ignored her, brushing her cheek lightly. "We can sneak out," he said. "Your aunt would've wanted you to be happy, right? What better way to honor the life she lived than to do something life affirming?"

"Just when I think you can't get any more morally reprehensible, you do something like this," Stacy said.

But she didn't look disgusted. Not at all. In fact…

"C'mon," House whispered into her ear. "I've always wanted to do it in a rental car."

"I can't take you anywhere," she said, but she was smiling wickedly now. "Give me ten minutes to let them know I'm leaving."

"Five," House said, "or I go find some bushes."

"You do that and there'll be no mile high clubbing tonight," she said. "You'll have to wait until next time to scratch Delta off your list."

"You're pure evil," House said.

The smoldering look she gave him made him squirm.

"Ten minutes," he conceded. She kept staring at him like that… "Go!" he hissed. "Hurry!"

She grinned evilly and sauntered off, putting on a show for him.

House leaned against the column they'd been half-concealed by and loosened his tie.

Of all the things he was going to go to hell for, this one was _so_ worth it.


	4. First Comes Love

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

TrooperCam – the longer stories, I swear, will be finished; in fact, I expect to post a new chap of Thurs. today :)

xanya-forever – thanks for the in-depth reviews – just the thing a writer adores!

LastScorpion, PWCorgigirl, dontuwanakno – thanks also for reviewing! I'm glad you're liking these little snippets!

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**First Comes Love**

**December 1998**

"So, Gregory," his mother said, "have you thought about asking her to marry you?"

"Mom," House whined as he stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.

She paused, turning to him. "I know your generation does things differently," she said gently, "but you've been living together for how long?"

House sighed. "We've thought about it," he said, "but aside from a tax break, we don't see the point."

His mother's warm smile was belied by the sadness that filled her eyes. "I thought you'd say that," she said. "You know your father and I would love a grandchild to spoil…"

"Neither of us has time to take care of a house plant right now," House said.

"Married to your work, I know," she said. "And Stacy is too. I just thought I'd put the thought out there."

"I'm sorry, mom," House said, embracing her briefly, "it's not fair to you, but we're not cut out to be parents. It would be even more unfair to the child."

His mother smiled sadly again. "I know, dear," she said. She glanced toward the den where Stacy and John were talking. "I suppose we had better join them," she said. "She must be the first girl you've brought home who isn't scared to death of your father."

"She's used to it," he said, "She deals with assholes on a regular—"

His mother thwacked him before he could finish. They left the kitchen smiling.


	5. Jitters

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Roo88 – cheers! glad you're enjoying and thanks very much for taking the time to review :)

LastScorpion – muchas gracias :)

Benj – glad I could help with that hangover! I've got the same opinion of Stacy – can't explain it, but I like her a lot – _love_ writing her (which you do very well too); House's parents…I've already got them written in to another story – they're much fun to play with – really, anyone who can push House's buttons and get away with it is fun to play with; the other stories are coming right along now that I've got a break in the school year…which I should be using to write papers, not fic (oops) :)

Re: this chapter. My knowledge of Jewish wedding customs is exactly nil - I hope this either fits closely enough or that it seems sorta plausible that Wilson would have a Christian wedding (given that we don't know Julie's faith or how observant Wilson really is). Just to get that out there. :)

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**Jitters**

**May 1999**

"I thought you said this was going to be a small ceremony," House hissed at Wilson.

Wilson fiddled nervously with his cuff links. "She has a big family," he said. "They all wanted to be here. Seems some people _don't_ alienate their relatives from birth."

"She just hasn't tried hard enough," House grumbled, checking his hair in the mirror.

"Can you not speak ill of my soon-to-be wife five minutes before we go out there?" Wilson said anxiously, checking his hair also. "Some Best Man you are."

"Hey," House said, taking affront, "_no one_ throws a better bachelor party than yours truly. And I'm keeping you from running off and jilting a very sexy woman, aren't I?"

"Is it so much to ask that you not covet your best friend's fiancée on the day of his wedding?" He caught House's smirk in the mirror. "Or could you at least keep it quieter?"

"I don't begrudge you a fine piece of ass like that," House said smugly.

"House, you're pushing it," Wilson said. The realization of what he was about to do dawned on him for the fiftieth time in the past hour and he blanched visibly, leaning forward against the counter.

House clapped him on the back, grinning. "Better hurry if you're going to throw up again," he said, "and be more careful. I've only got one spare shirt left and I'm fresh out of cummerbunds."

Wilson swallowed with difficulty. "You're not helping," he said shakily.

"He's not getting cold feet, is he?"

House jumped. Julie's _stupid_ cousin.

The voice belonged to a large, blond, sun-tanned young man whose grin displayed two rows of perfectly straight, milk-white teeth. He slapped House hard on the back. House pitched forward before he could stop himself.

"Talk him out of it or I come after _you_," he said.

House let the thinly-veiled threat go and turned to smile at the shark-like man. "He's fine, Les," House said with false cheer. "Jimmy takes this very seriously, that's all. His concept of forever includes this thing called the afterlife. Big and scary if you ask me, but he's very serious about it. Takes him a moment to adjust to spending it with someone else. You understand." House returned Les's clap on the back, but the larger man wasn't thrown off balance as House had been. "Why don't you go see if they're ready for us," House suggested.

Les glanced at Wilson, who had gone even more pale, scowled briefly, and lumbered away.

Wilson watched him go in the mirror. "Thanks," he said gratefully. "I'm not looking forward to having him as an in-law."

House smirked. "Nothing against Julie," he said, "but you may be marrying into the Missing Link's family."

Wilson was unimpressed by House's comment. "Again, not helping," he said. He went back to fiddling with his cuff links. "What's taking so long?" he asked worriedly.

House glanced over to the door. The wedding coordinator was gesturing to them. He turned back to Wilson.

"It's time," he said. He waited until Wilson turned his head and their eyes met. "You'll be great," he added, smiling.

Wilson straightened up, composed himself, and smiled back as best he could. "If you ever need a Best Man, you know where to find me," he said.

House said nothing. Instead, he smiled again, adjusted the flower in Wilson's lapel, and led him out of the room.


	6. Brooding

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. You're getting numerous. I'm very pleased. Thanks:)

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**Brooding**

**February 1998**

"Greg. Come to bed."

House yo-yoed in silence at his desk in the spare bedroom that served as their office, rocking his precariously-tilted chair back and forth with his right foot, clad only in boxers. If he had a thinking position, this was it.

"It's two a.m.," Stacy yawned, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself. The heat was spotty in this room and she was cold just looking at him.

"Gotten so used to me you can't sleep alone?" he said distantly. The yo-yo went up and down, his chair went back and forth, and he stared blankly at nothing.

"Your side of the bed is cold," Stacy whined.

"Nothing but a human heater, am I?" House said.

"Yes, that's all you're good for," Stacy said sarcastically.

Realizing this wasn't going to happen quickly, she stepped closer to lean on his desk next to his foot.

"Judging from how angry the sex was, someone died today," she said nonchalantly. "Care to talk about it or are you going to ruin my night's sleep as well as your own?"

"You're so co-dependent," House remarked vacantly.

Stacy waited. Fifteen to twenty seconds: he couldn't stand a silence longer than that. She counted down slowly, first watching the yo-yo, then tallying the flaming chili peppers on his boxers.

"She was twenty-six," he said at length. "In perfect health until last week. Seizures, partial paralysis, a laundry list of other symptoms. Arrested around six p.m. No idea what killed her. Autopsy report in the morning."

Stacy sighed. "Y'know, if you had mentioned this at dinner, we both might've slept tonight," she groused.

"No point in ruining a meal," House said, still steadily yo-yoing, rocking, and refusing to let her catch his eye.

"So, am I going to find a wrongful death suit on my desk tomorrow?" Stacy asked conversationally.

"Probably."

"Good," she said. "Then you can wake up at some god-awful hour to cold sheets."

"Be sure to tell the judge I was too wracked with guilt to sleep," House quipped. "I'm sure that'll be a great comfort to her family."

"Just like playing with that yo-yo is," Stacy said. She rubbed his leg. "Come on," she said. "You can beat yourself up while you lie awake just as well as you can sitting in here."

"The yo-yo isn't going to snap at me for tossing and turning," House retorted.

"There are a lot of things the yo-yo won't do," Stacy said. "And a lot of things figuring this out won't do, too, like keeping me warm or bringing her back to life." She paused. "Not that you care. You're just miffed you couldn't find the cause."

"Harsh," House said. "I must be one uncaring son of a bitch."

"You're forgetting jealous, vindictive, manipulative—"

House caught the yo-yo with a thwap and looked up at her for the first time since she'd come in.

"Where'd you learn to argue?" he snipped. "Some kind of arguing school? Because you're very persuasive."

"Not persuasive enough, apparently," she said standing up. "I'll be in bed if you decide to snap out of it," she called over her shoulder.

House grunted and threw the yo-yo out again.

Twenty seconds later, he caught it, took the string off of his finger, and turned the light out.

It wasn't that she was right, he mused as he found his way to the bed in the dark. Not at all. Just that he was a little chilly and he could think of a better place to pass the night.


	7. Regrets

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

**WARNING:** Spoilers for 11/22's episode, "Hunting."

I love reviews. Thank you, kind reviewers. :)

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**Regrets**

**October 2005**

"I blew it," House said, tossing the bottle cap against the balcony wall. "I totally blew it. She was ready to pounce on me and relieve months of sexual frustration and I blew it."

He took a healthy swig of his beer and leaned back against the wall of the conference room.

Wilson sat facing him, his back against the balcony's retaining wall. He tossed the bottle cap back to House.

"Well, look at it this way," he said. "You would have felt guilty later for helping her cheat on her husband."

House, who had been in the middle of flipping the cap in the air like a coin, did a double take. The cap landed harmlessly in his lap.

"Did you just say that?" he asked incredulously. "No way you just said that."

Wilson merely shrugged and sipped his beer.

House let it go, still absorbed in his own tragedy.

"I can't believe I blew it," he moaned. "She had ice out and everything, fussing over me. I was this close." He held out his forefinger and thumb with a few millimeter's space between them. "_This close_. She bought it. She bought all of it."

"You were selling?" Wilson asked mildly.

A retort sprang to House's tongue but for once he kept his mouth shut. What had happened in the attic between him and Stacy—the apology, and God, he'd actually meant it—would stay between them for the time being. He didn't have words for the event yet and he didn't really want them. And Wilson would understand that only too well if he were to so much as hint that he'd been sincere. House didn't want to see pity on his face.

He threw the bottle cap at Wilson and Wilson tried instinctively to protect himself from the tiny piece of metal. Wilson shot House an annoyed glare. Good. They'd moved on.

It was Wilson's turn to flip the cap in the air with his thumb. "You certainly worked the rat angle long enough to deserve it," he said.

House sniffed a laugh, happy to ease back into normalcy. "I bought him a wheel," he said. "He can go back in two weeks once his treatment is finished."

"Rat droppings," Wilson said disdainfully. "I really look forward to cleaning that up."

"Steve is going to get the best of care," House said proudly. The devilish gleam returned to his eye. "I'll have Cameron do it."

"Lucky rat," Wilson mumbled into his beer. Aloud, he said, "Cure 'em and send 'em out to be infected anew, eh?"

"Anything that keeps me in the exterminator business," House said wistfully.

He finished his beer and scraped the bottle against the cement.

"Sleeping over again?"

Wilson shrugged. "She hasn't called," he said.

"I'm not going to have to pay her a visit and beg for more of your clothes, am I?" House said.

"I could use a few new shirts and ties," Wilson said. "I'll pick some up this weekend at the mall."

"Well," House said fingering the bottle. "It's cold. Let's go home." He stood up and took a moment to shake the stiffness out of his body. "I'll let you pay for dinner."

"I guess that means I'm driving too," Wilson said with just enough self-pity to set House off.

"I won't let you in my bed if you're going to bitch," House teased.

"Fine with me," Wilson said. "You snore."

"Hmm," House mused, "the couch in your lonely office with no tv or the couch at your best buddy's place with everything a guy could want _including _a pet rat. Which is better?"

"That depends entirely on how long you're going to bemoan your mistake with Stacy tonight," Wilson said. "Or will you be serenading me with excerpts from her file again?"

"You wish," House said as he held his office door open for Wilson. "I'm sure there's some kind of sport on tonight we can watch to feel manly before we start groping each other." He laughed to himself. "You should've seen your face when that guy outed you."

"I keep telling you, I can't be outed if I was never in," Wilson said.

"Don't ask, don't tell," House said with his hands in the air in 'hey, don't blame me' fashion. The door he'd been holding began to shut. "I'm okay with that."

Wilson drank the last of his beer and sighed with satisfaction. "Well," he said, "my life is complete."

He opened the door and followed House inside.


	8. A Fortune in Mints

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

I had some scenes with this theme planned out a few months ago to go with my longer fic on the infarction (the ED, not the smoking), but after last night's episode, I just couldn't resist writing a quick one for this fic. It seemed to fit with some of the themes this fic is working with and who knows how long it'll take me to get to a scene like this in that other fic.

This chapter and the last one are dedicated to Auditrix because they both came out of a conversation I had with her last night.

Please let me know what you think. Reviews rock my world!

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**A Fortune in Mints**

**August 1999**

She lay down next to him and turned on her side. She hadn't turned the lamp off yet. He knew what that meant.

Fingernails lightly brushed his cheek. He looked over at her and she leaned down to kiss him.

Toothpaste, two kinds of mint (cinnamon and spearmint), a faint hint of the lasagna they'd had for dinner and… there. Barely, but he was certain. Smoke.

He'd known earlier of course. It didn't take anyone ten minutes to take the garbage out.

Maybe it was because he could only stomach half of lunch and dinner today. Or that his leg had started bothering him right around the time she tried to ease into their nightly cuddle and he had excused himself to lie down in the bedroom. Maybe he hadn't laughed at the right times during the Seinfeld rerun or said the right things when she told him about her day. He wasn't sure what the right things were anymore or how much he wanted to say them.

He realized that he'd stopped kissing back. He hadn't meant to stop so soon but…

"I can't," he said softly.

His eyes held hers for a moment and he tried to make her understand that it wasn't her fault. Not really.

"Do you feel okay?" she asked, eyes glinting hidden concern and thwarted desire.

He nodded once. "It's fine now," he said.

She moved back to her side of the bed. Giving him space. How nice.

"Then— is it— the drugs?" she asked haltingly. _Help me understand_ her eyes said. _I won't be mad…I just want to understand_. "You've been having wet dreams," she continued. "Maybe that's a sign…"

He shrugged and shook his head. "I can't control it," he said.

"Okay," she said with a sad smile. "That's okay." She started to get up. "I'll just— give you some time and—"

Her hands. She was fidgeting. He pretended not to notice.

She didn't have to glance toward the kitchen for him to know where she was going. The pantry. Behind the high fiber cereal. This was number five today by his count. She must be spending a fortune in mints.

She leaned across the bed to kiss his forehead. "I love you," she said.

Her hand lingered in his hair. He tried to smile.

"Let me know if you need anything," she said as she took her robe from its hook in the closet.

"I will," he said.

She stood in the doorway for a moment and then she was gone.


	9. Stitches

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Yet another sorta inspired by "Hunting" that I like to think I would've written anyway. ;)Glad you guys liked the last two. :)

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**Stitches**

**January 1997**

"Greg?" Stacy called from the foyer of their apartment. None of the lights were on and at six p.m. it was already dark outside. "I saw your car outside, are you—" She flipped a light switch. "—there you are."

Of course the huddled form on the couch could be no one else. The ice pack he held pressed against his face told her all she needed to know. She turned on the lamp next to the couch and his face contorted.

"Who did you piss off this time?" she asked mildly, rounding the couch to look down at him.

A bruised eye fluttered open, squinted at her, and squeezed itself closed. "Kill the light," he mumbled.

She sat down next to him instead and tried to pry the ice pack off his face.

"Let me see," she admonished when he resisted. He grunted with displeasure and reluctantly gave her access.

Stacy whistled at the inflamed tissue crisscrossed with black stitches.

"How many?" she asked.

"Seven," House answered, still cringing in the light.

"Ooo, two shy of the record," Stacy teased. "You must be so disappointed." She paused and looked closer at his cheek. The injury looked odd in a way she couldn't quite place. She traced the outline gently with her forefinger. "How'd you manage that?" she asked curiously.

"Retired naval officer," House began, wincing slightly. Talking pulled at the stitches. "He had one of those big class rings." House gestured to the gash. "Wasn't too keen on me telling him his thirteen year old daughter tested positive for Chlamydia and gonorrhea." He took the ice pack from her and pressed it against his cheek. "You'll be happy to hear I didn't hit back."

"You and your smart mouth," Stacy said. She gently touched the skin around his black eye.

"Hey, watch it," House said, jerking his head back. "I've been poked enough for one day."

Stacy smiled at him. "Now for the eternal question," she said. "Lawsuit. My desk. Tomorrow morning?"

"Given that it took four people to restrain the guy, I'd say no," House said. He opened his mouth and moved his jaw back and forth, wincing. "Nearly broke my jaw," he said. "_I_ should charge _him_ with assault."

"How much mouthing off did you do first?" Stacy asked skeptically.

House said nothing.

"I thought so," she said smugly.

House grunted. "Are you finished?" he asked with annoyance. "I was almost asleep."

Stacy looked down at him with a long-suffering smile and turned the lamp off. "I'll get you some more ice," she said.

House felt the couch cushion rebound when she got up and smiled to himself in the dark. He never intended to get into fights but what were a few bruises when it got him the next morning off and a truckload of sympathy from his very sexy girlfriend? He'd seen her expression: _you naughty boy, what am I going to do with you?_ He knew exactly what that meant. His groin stirred in anticipation. She loved a rebel.

_Yes_, he thought, grinning inwardly as she pressed the new ice pack against his black eye, _works every time. _


	10. Persuasion

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Cuddy's first appearance in this little fic. I don't know if a PT area would have free weights, so, um, please suspend disbelief…? The vasculitis thing, too – I got nothin'.

Many thanks to all you awesome reviewers. :)

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**Persuasion **

**January 2000**

"I want to hire you," Cuddy said, peering down at House as he did bench presses, his right leg stretched out motionless in front of him.

"I'm not sure I want to be hired," House responded breathlessly, grunting with effort.

He knew regaining his strength was going to take a while but it had been months and he still hadn't cracked the triple digits. He heaved the bar up in frustration, happy to feel his muscles burn.

"I talked to Stacy and Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said. "They both say you're ready to come back to work."

House replaced the bar and sat up.

"Did you stop to think that if I wanted the job I would have come to you first?" he said with annoyance, catching his breath.

"I saw your article on reevaluating the differential for systemic vasculitis," Cuddy said. "You're publishing. Why not start practicing again?"

"Most administrators court me with fancy dinners, expensive champagne, the use of their private mountain villas," House said wiping the sweat from his face. "You stalk my PT sessions."

"Dr. Singh says you're progressing—"

"Singh is an idiot," House snapped, moving his leg to the floor and reaching for his cane. "What makes you think I would want to work here again, now that I know firsthand just how incompetent everyone is?"

"It's an easy way to rise above the field," Cuddy offered lamely.

House scowled, struggled to his feet, and did his best to stalk off.

Cuddy caught up with him quickly. "Stacy says you're bored," she said. "James says you're miserable."

"Glowing recommendations," House growled. He stopped at the elevator. "You know I've been fired four times?"

Cuddy nodded. "Twice by my predecessors," she added in a tone that let him know she was not at all bothered by the fact. "You're good at what you do."

"I'm an asshole," House said decisively as he boarded the elevator.

Cuddy caught the elevator door before it could close. "You tried no less than three times to revive the Department of Diagnostic Medicine while you were here," she said. "Come back and it's yours."

House pulled a bottle of Vicodin out of his pocket and rattled it.

"Can't," he said, popping the cap off and tossing a pill into his mouth, "too high to work."

Cuddy stepped onto the elevator. "Legitimate pain control for legitimate pain isn't a problem. Not with me, not with any hiring committee."

"Maybe it is for me," House said.

"I'll reinstate your tenure, add twenty to your annual salary, and double your bonus," Cuddy cajoled.

"Not interested."

He shifted his weight to put on his overcoat in preparation for the wintery weather, cane balanced against his hip.

"What can I do to get you to come back?" Cuddy asked, trying not to reveal just how flustered she was. Though why she thought this would be easy in the first place was a mystery to her.

House glanced down, ogling her chest. "Put your melons where your mouth is."

Cuddy blushed angrily. "House! What would Stacy think?"

He looked away. "We're breaking up," he said.

Cuddy was instantly sympathetic. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"Don't be," House said exiting the elevator.

She took a few steps after him as he limped toward the out-patient entrance, but stopped, not sure what to do.

"Well?" she called, wincing a little at his uneven gait.

"I'll think about," he called back over his shoulder.


	11. Adjustment

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for the awesome reviews, awesome reviewers. Here's some more. :)

* * *

**Adjustment**

**February 2000**

House took a deep breath, cursed Cuddy for hiring him back, and opened the door to Exam Room 1.

A large, uncouth woman in her forties and a sniffling young girl in a stained pink sweatshirt stared at him as he negotiated the door, the chart, and his cane.

"Hello. I'm Dr. House. And you are—" House scanned the chart. "Mrs. Rijnhart?"

"You don't look like a doctor," the woman said skeptically.

_Of course_, House thought, _no white coat_. That had been one of his stipulations for taking Cuddy's offer. The girl was staring at him in abject terror.

"And I ain't Mrs. Rijnhart," the woman continued. "I baby-sit Caitlin for Susie while she works sometimes." She paused just long enough to put her hands on her hips in self-righteous indignation. "You sure don't look like no doctor. I heard about these schemes where perverts—"

"How long has Caitlin been coughing?" House interrupted.

She stared hard at him, unimpressed by his attitude. "Couple days."

"Any fever?" he asked as he stepped toward the cowering child on the exam table and donned his stethoscope.

"No!" the girl shrieked before the woman could answer. She began pummeling House with her small hands while he tried to listen to her chest.

"It's okay," he said soothingly, trying to maneuver the stethoscope into position, "I won't hurt you." He glanced up at the woman. "Any fever?" he asked again.

The girl shrieked even louder and started slapping his face. The woman's face was glowing red with rage and she looked ready to spit fire at him.

"Could you hold her arms?" House asked calmly, not making any attempt to duck. The way he was balanced, if he moved, he'd fall.

"While you touch her?" the woman snapped, but made no attempt to intervene. "She don't like you."

"I gathered that," House said dryly, moving the stethoscope and doing his best to listen while the girl screamed and hit him.

"Look here, stop that!" the woman yelled at him, pulling the girl away. "She don't like it."

House grabbed the table to steady himself as he put the stethoscope away and got his balance back. He retreated to a stool a few feet from the pair.

"Any fever?" he asked again, trying to keep the emotions swirling in his chest out of his voice as he glanced over the chart. "I don't see anything here."

The woman narrowed her eyes at him as she calmed the sniveling girl. She shook her head once.

"All right," House said with a forced smile. "She has a cold." He began writing his diagnosis on the chart. "Make sure she drinks plenty of clear liquids—"

"I know that," the woman interrupted with a sneer. She seemed to expect more.

House stopped writing and looked up at her, forcing another smile.

"Her lungs are clear and she doesn't have a fever, so no infection," he said. He held up the chart. "I've got coughing and sneezing here. Vitals are normal. Any other symptoms you neglected to mention?"

House noticed the little girl was staring wide-eyed at his cane now. _Ask_, he thought furiously, _go ahead and ask_.

"I want another doctor to look at her," the woman said.

"All right," House said. "You might have to wait a few minutes."

He finished writing his diagnostic note, adding a vitriolic sentence about the nature of the patient's guardian, got to his feet as quickly as he possibly could and left.

Cuddy was at the reception desk as he stormed toward it. The chart landed with a clatter on the desk.

"I'm not doing this," he growled sweeping past her.

"House?" she called after him, exchanging a confused look with the receptionist.

He didn't answer or look back.


	12. Chocolate

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

**WARNING:** One naughty word and lots of drinking. Hank Williams' lyrics belong to whoever holds the copyright.

This one got long on me. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

**Chocolate**

**February 2000**

House lay on the floor of his old office, right leg propped up on the new chair that had been waiting for him when he returned, Hank Williams' Greatest Hits on the record player next to his head, stone cold stinking drunk.

_Hear that lonesome whippoorwill  
__He sounds too blue to fly  
__The midnight train is whining low  
__I'm so lonesome I could cry_

The mellow slide guitar was just right as he sipped from a newly-opened bottle of Jack Daniels, spilling twice as much as he got in his mouth on his already stained shirt collar. Realizing he'd had to pee really badly for the last ten minutes or so, he put that bottle down and reached awkwardly for the one he'd finished earlier. Once both bottles were full again…well, by then he'd be fucked up enough to start drinking them again. He was about to unzip his fly when a voice stopped him.

"Surely you're not that far gone."

Wilson. Geez. Was a little privacy so much to ask for?

"How would you know?" House slurred. He shook the bottle, already a quarter full of yellow liquid. "You're too late anyway."

"Cuddy told me what happened in the clinic today," Wilson said closing the door behind him.

House wasn't listening. "I don't care if you watch," he said, "but have the courtesy to wait until I pass out to jack off."

Wilson frowned disapprovingly and turned around.

House sang along with the record as he urinated.

_The silence of a fallen star  
__Lights up a purple sky  
__And as I wonder where you are  
__I'm so lonesome I could cry_

"There are better ways of dealing with this," Wilson said as the song ended and House stopped singing. He waited until he heard House's zipper before he turned around.

"I think this works just fine," House said. He picked up the whisky bottle and sucked on it.

Wilson let out a long-suffering sigh. "You're going to be drinking your pee before the night is over," he said, crossing the room to lean against House's desk.

House saw his blurry form relax and wondered why Wilson was hanging around him on today of all days. It was past five o'clock.

"What are you doing here?" he asked drunkenly.

Wilson shifted his weight. "Cuddy seemed to think you'd be in here packing—"

"No, I mean, why aren't you home getting your present from your wife?" House said bluntly. "You didn't forget, did you?"

"No," Wilson said, "I sent her flowers, chocolates, all that."

"Then why aren't you home?" House demanded.

Wilson squirmed. He'd hoped to avoid this.

"She, ah, came by at lunch," he mumbled.

"Lucky son of a bitch," House muttered. He lifted the bottle to his lips again.

"She wanted me to give you these," Wilson said.

House was about to look up to see what 'these' were when a box landed on his chest and he grunted, spilling whisky on his shirt again.

"What the hell?" he mumbled. He picked up the box and squinted at it. Russell Stover.

"Your wife sent me chocolates?" he asked incredulously.

"Sort of," Wilson said. "I forgot she doesn't like chocolate. She showed up at lunch with them ready to tear me a new one for forgetting. I told her they must have been sent by mistake and she said to give them to you."

Wilson fidgeted and hoped House wouldn't ask why she wanted him to have them. _He must be lonely today_, she'd told him at lunch, brightening with generosity. _He likes chocolate, right? _Wilson had nodded. _Tell him I said Happy Valentine's Day_, she'd said and smiled. He knew then that he was not only forgiven but also about to have really good office sex. But House didn't need to know any of this.

House grunted. "You're just saying that," he said as he clumsily ripped the plastic wrapper off of the box. "Hiding your true feelings for me behind your wife, Dr. Wilson? Very unhealthy."

Wilson merely shrugged.

"She doesn't like chocolate?" House said around a mouthful of caramel and nuts. "She can't be human."

Wilson glared at him, unimpressed. "I'll tell her you liked them," he said dryly.

"Well, you did your duty," House said, popping another chocolate in his mouth. "Run along."

Wilson didn't move.

House sighed. "Tell Cuddy I'm not going to quit over some idiot clinic patient," he said, doing his best to roll his eyes.

"I know," Wilson said.

"Then why aren't you leaving?" House asked.

Wilson squirmed again. "How recently did you take a Vicodin?" he asked.

"Ohhh," House said, "that's why you're here." He chewed loudly on another chocolate. "I'm not that stupid," he said.

Wilson glanced at House—lying on the floor, chocolate wrappers strewn around his head, the box's lid next to his right shoulder, a half-empty bottle of whisky too close to the half-full bottle of urine, stains on his shirt collar and a smear of chocolate on his chin—and laughed quietly.

House realized what he was laughing at. "Shut up," he said. "The last one wore off over an hour ago."

"Is that when you started drinking?" Wilson asked.

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" House said. "Go home and get your other present from your wife." He tossed another chocolate back. "And made sure she's not an alien," he added.

"No, I think we're going to go down to the E.R. and undo the alcohol poisoning," Wilson said with a sigh.

"That can wait till I finish these and this," House said indicating to the chocolate and whisky.

"You should save some of those for after the gastric lavage," Wilson observed.

"My candy," House said, shoving another chocolate in his mouth. "I can do what I want with it."

"Well," Wilson said, standing up and offering a hand to House, "come on. Let's go."

House laughed at him. "You really think I can stand up right now?" he said. He giggled. "Can't feel a thing. Hit my leg," he commanded. "It'll be funny."

Wilson rolled his eyes. He bent down and turned off the record player, then took the two bottles away from House.

"Hey," House said, making a drunken swipe after the whisky, "give that back." He tried to push himself up on his elbows and fell back, laughing at his own clumsiness.

Wilson gathered the chocolate wrappers and put the lid on the box, which he stored in House's desk drawer. House feebly tried to stop him.

"Life of the party you are not," House mumbled sleepily.

Wilson bent down and grabbed House's hands. House did nothing to help and Wilson dropped him.

"Stop that," House said. His eyes fluttered and closed. "'M goin' to sleep," he murmured.

Wilson called his name, shook him, tapped his cheek. Finally he sighed and stood up.

"Took you long enough," he muttered under his breath.

He left House's office to find a pair of orderlies, mildly surprised that this hadn't happened more often in the month or so since he and Stacy had broken up.

He'd expected this, though, he mused as he helped the orderlies pick House up. In fact, he'd expected worse than this, especially today.

He wondered idly as he followed the gurney down the hall whether he should call Julie and tell her he'd be late for dinner.

Maybe. But maybe he wouldn't be late.


	13. Sunday

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Glad you guys liked the last one so much. Thanks for the reviews! This one is shorter and not as much fun. Sorry.

* * *

**Sunday**

**March 2000**

House sighed to himself, hands behind his head in the dark room. Awake. He must've slept if he was awake. That was an improvement. And he was in bed too. This was the first time he'd slept in his bed in over a week. New apartment but same old bed, as empty now as it was five years ago. He preferred sleeping on the couch where he could watch television but he had to admit that the bed was better for his back. The darkness, though, waking up in it and automatically reaching out with his left hand and…nothing, was difficult to bear. It wasn't depressing—he'd found that taking Vicodin regularly numbed him in more ways than one—but he did feel something. Nostalgia. Regret. Loneliness. Something.

Sunday. Useless Sunday. No work, no PT. Nothing he needed or wanted to do. Wilson took him grocery shopping every other Saturday. Someone cleaned his apartment once a week. Everything from the move had been unpacked and put into place over a month ago. Nothing at all to do.

He didn't even want to get up. He was comfortable. Just warm enough, feeling pretty decent physically. Getting up and moving around would strain the muscles on his right side. His leg would start aching and little firebolts from confused, misfiring nerves would shoot up his side. Nothing good would come of it.

But he had nothing good to do in bed either. As recently as last Christmas he couldn't stand being supine any longer than was absolutely necessary. Too much time on his back staring at a variety of ceilings. Lying down had become irrevocably associated with pain: it was the reason he'd lie down in the first place and it kept him on his back longer than he wanted.

But now lying down meant relief for sore muscles and…not much else. Even when he'd been forced to lie down by pain, there was always the possibility that something might happen…because she was there…and sometimes something did happen. Those were good days. But she wasn't here anymore and she was never going to be here again. He didn't want her here. No. He didn't. Not at all. She would only be upset and angry and miserable and no, he didn't want her back. No.

No.

He reached for his pills, shook one out, and swallowed it whole without thinking. For months he would wait until his leg started to hurt before he took one, but since she'd been gone it had become easier to take one before the twinges got out of control. And anyway, he rationalized, he was supposed to take them like this, _before_ pain took over. One every six hours. Forty milligrams per day. So what if he'd taken one four hours ago. It was March and it had been snowing outside last night. If he ventured out, he'd need the extra protection against the cold. But he'd already taken it. Excuses didn't matter.

He sighed again and shifted slightly under the covers. If he could avoid dreaming, a few more hours of sleep would be grand. But if he dreamt, especially the one where he met her on the street years from now and begged her to take him back, for just one kiss, to touch her again just once—no, then he'd have to get up.

Because he didn't want her back.

He didn't.


	14. Making Peace

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Hope you guys don't mind a brief Stacy-centric vignette. If not... –ducks and covers–

* * *

**Making Peace**

**April 2002**

Stacy paused, calligraphy pen poised over a blank Save the Date notice.

They wanted a small ceremony. A few close relatives and friends only. He was on the list they'd made together, the second-to-last name, before Mark's biking buddy Ziegler. Mark was content with whomever she invited; he knew her last relationship had been hard and with moving to a new town, even if it had been two years, she had some friends she considered close that he hadn't met yet. James was an old friend from her previous job: that was enough to satisfy Mark.

It made sense to invite him. He might come; he might politely decline and send a tasteful gift. Either way, she should invite him.

But…

She sighed and put the pen down.

But if she invited him, if he knew about it, Greg would get it out of him and she knew Greg wouldn't handle it well. She hadn't seen him or spoken to him since she'd left, but she seriously doubted he had his life together.

And she didn't want to admit it, but God, she missed him. Mark was great—kind, loving, smart, funny, surprising—but he wasn't Greg. No one could ever be Greg.

And how she hated him for that—for being so…_himself_. So electric. So good in all the worst ways. So shocking. Mark was surprising but he would never be shocking. He was a man to marry, someone who was at a point in his life where he wanted to settle down. He could keep the promises he made. And if that made him a little dull…well, she needed dull right now. Dull was highly underrated.

So what if the lightning wasn't there. No lightning meant no thunder. This was a relationship she could live with. It wasn't a bad thing.

She took up the pen again. She'd like to see James. As much as seeing him would be a reminder of the bad, there was also so much good to remember. He and Mark would get along well. She should invite him.

Her hand wavered over the blank on the card. It was simple. J-a-m-e-s… She didn't have to send it. She could just write it out and decide later.

But…

But, dammit, Greg would find out. She threw the pen down. Greg always found out, damn him. He could get anything out of James—out most people. And if Greg found out, he would do something. Probably something incredibly juvenile like ordering a dozen pizzas with anchovies and pineapple or paying off a neighborhood kid to egg their cars or TP their house.

Or…that's what he would have done. Before.

He had become so withdrawn in the last month of their relationship that she really didn't know if he'd do anything at all now. He'd become such a good victim, so convincing that she had bought into it. Not that it had been hard to buy into in the first place. Not when every time she saw him wince and stubbornly insist he was all right or struggle to do something that had been easy and fail or take one of his pain pills and have to lie down because they made him dizzy she felt horribly, irrationally guilty. He hadn't even had to try to make her feel like dirt. And they would fight and scream at each other, and half of the time they'd end up with an uneasy truce because make-up sex wasn't guaranteed.

It had been hell. Absolute hell.

And if he found out, it would only play into his dramatization of victimhood. He didn't have to do anything. She would _know_. She already had to live with enough grief from him…

But she wouldn't dwell on it when she was in the middle of writing out wedding notices. No, she wouldn't.

"Hey."

She jumped as Mark embraced her from behind, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

He pulled back and smiled. "Surprised you, did I?"

She smiled back.

"Deep thoughts I bet," he said. He nodded toward the cards. "You know you don't have to do that."

"I want to," she said. "I'm almost done."

"Okay." He smiled again. Such a warm smile. "I'll let you get back to it. Dinner in ten minutes?"

"Sure."

He squeezed her shoulder and left.

Dammit, Greg. Now she felt guilty again, betraying him in thought like that. It had been happening more and more often recently. She attributed it to nerves. Weddings, after all, were big events, even when they were small. They invited a certain amount of remembrance of old lovers. Of making peace.

She didn't know if that was going to happen for her, but she knew who to make the next card out to now. J-e-f-f Z-i-e-g-l-e-r.

She put the cap on the pen, stacked the notices neatly, and got up to see if Mark needed any last minute help with dinner.

It was easier this way. For everyone.


	15. 39

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Wow, work really piled up on me, so much so that I didn't have half an hour to write one of these. I've got four of these in the pipe, though, and I'm only about a good hour of writing away from the next chap of Intervention, so it should be a good weekend/week despite the rerun. :)

Note on the date: House's birthday takes place during The Socratic Method episode. There's no indication of which month it takes place in and the air date/production date discrepancy makes it tough to guess when he was born, though I think it's safe to say that he's a late fall/winter baby—sometime between November and February. (The discrepancy: Damned if You Do takes place around Christmas; Socratic Method aired after it but was taped before it: hence the problem.) I'm going with November because I want the next b-day to take place before he and Stacy call it quits. Just to let you know…

Note on House's age: He's 45 or 46-ish, right? I'm going with 1960 for the year since it's the easiest to add from. (Anyone have proof here?)

Hope you like this. Number 39 is next. :)

**A/N Update:** Someone has found out House's birthday is Dec. 21, 1959, so I've fixed all the dates.

* * *

**39**

**December 1998**

"Hey," House said, stooping to kiss her cheek before he sat down across from her, "sorry I'm late. Have you ordered yet?"

"No," Stacy said. "Just filling up on breadsticks."

"Sorry," he said again. "Traffic." He opened the menu and beginning to peruse. "So," he said, "what's the occasion? I know it's not our anniversary and it's not your birthday, but I had to wear a tie, so it's important…" He lifted an eyebrow. "Did you get a raise?" he guessed.

"No," Stacy said. She looked at him questioningly. "Your mom didn't call you?"

House looked up from the menu, his forehead creased with confusion. "Why would she call me…"

Then he realized what day it was.

"Oh," he said.

"Yes," Stacy said smiling sardonically at him. "'Oh.'" She laughed. "Did you do this when you were a child?" she teased. "'Who's that cake for, mommy? Why does it have eight candles?'"

House rolled his eyes. "They didn't let me forget," he said, picking a breadstick out of the basket and glancing at the menu again. "I've been busy." He shrugged. "It's not like it's important."

"So you don't want the present I got you?" Stacy asked playfully, letting him see the colorfully-wrapped box she'd been hiding in her lap. "James would probably like it," she said reflectively.

"Just because I don't think the world should stop spinning…" House started to say when the waiter appeared.

He contented himself with a 'you're being silly' look while the waiter took their orders. She leaned across the table toward him after the waiter left.

"It's important because _you're_ important," she said. "To me." She mock-glared at him. "Let me do something nice for you. It makes _me_ happy."

House held up his hands in concession. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" He paused, trying to find the right words. "People make too much of birthdays. It's just another day, really."

Stacy sat back and contemplated the package. "I think James _would_ like it," she said.

"Aww, come on," House sputtered. His mouth hung open for a moment while he figured out what to say. "I mean, thank you for remembering and going to the trouble of getting me something," he said.

"See?" Stacy said. "That's all you had to say." She handed him the box with a smile. "Wasn't that easy?"

"I guess so," House pouted. He brightened as he took the box and smiled. "Thanks," he said. "Open it now…?"

"Go ahead," Stacy said. She dropped her voice and leered devilishly at him. "You get your other present later."

"Other present," House echoed lustfully, his eyes shining with desire. "I think I like this birthday thing."

"If you like it now…" she said suggestively, her eyes flitting down to the cleavage her little black dress revealed and back at him.

"You get something special?" he asked, eyebrow raised. It took every ounce of his will power keep himself from taking his eyes off hers and glancing down too.

"Maybe I did," she said, leaning forward and nearly spilling out of her dress.

House turned his eyes upward toward the ceiling to avoid looking at her chest. "Why is it that if I look, I get in trouble?" he asked. From the way he was positioned, he appeared to be asking God.

He saw her shrug out of the corner of his eye. She wasn't moving back to a safe position, though. Damn.

"Okay," he said uncomfortably, eyes still turned upward. "Why is it that _you_ get something new on my birthday?" His voice cracked on 'birthday' and he swallowed. "That seems unfair."

Stacy finally leaned back, a smug look on her face. "You think lace lingerie is _comfortable_?" she said.

He could look at her now and did. She was indignant yet amused, and pleased at having made him squirm. He liked that mood. Good things happened to him when she was in that mood.

"I won't even start on the—" She stopped herself and smiled wickedly. "Well. You'll see." Her smiled disappeared just as quickly and she glared at him. "_If_ you can keep your foot out of your mouth."

House gulped and started wishing he'd worn tightie whities instead of boxers or jeans instead of trousers. "Forget I said anything," he squeaked.

He fidgeted and glanced around the restaurant, trying to find a waiter. "You know, I'm not that hungry. I think we can skip dinner. Waiter!"

She grabbed his hand as he tried to hail the waiter. "Greg," she chided, "be patient. You haven't even opened your present yet."

"I'm trying to open my present," House said distractedly as he tried to catch the waiter's eye, "that's why I want the waiter."

She tugged at his hand to get his attention. He stopped and looked at her.

"Later," she said. "Open the one wrapped in paper first."

"I can't meet you in the bathroom real quick?" House whined.

"The more patient you are, the better it will be," Stacy said with a grin that was positively evil.

"Stop that or I'm going to have to go to the bathroom by myself," he said.

"You're so prurient," Stacy said. "Open that one now. I spent a lot of time—"

"Okay, okay," he said. "But you know what you do to me."

She leaned closer to him. "Yes, I do," she said in a low, silky voice.

House squirmed. "You're doing it again," he said.

She smiled. "I know."

House shuddered and tore the wrapping off of his gift for the sheer distraction it provided. He admired the watch and Bob Dylan box set, nearly choked as he wolfed down his dinner, and later that night, began to wish every day was his birthday.


	16. 40

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for the reviews! You guys liked the wedding invitations chapter—surprised me. For some reason, I thought everyone would hate that chap, or at least not review it, since Stacy is not typically liked. Not that I'm complaining about reviews…. ;) For House/Wilson fans, the next chapter will be House/Wilson. :)

Please let me know if you like/dislike this one.

* * *

**40**

**December 1999**

"Hey," Stacy called, closing the door behind her. She could hear the television as she put her purse and briefcase down in the small foyer.

"Hey," she heard him call back.

Good. It wasn't a bad day.

She glanced into the living room quickly to gage his mood. He was slumped on the couch, leg stretched out on the long, wide, cushiony ottoman she'd bought before he came home from the hospital. Sweats. He hadn't shaved. Three beer cans and an open bag of potato chips on the coffee table next to him. His painkillers on the table with the top off.

It wasn't a good day either.

He glanced up as she walked past the couch, his face expressionless.

"How was your day?" he called after she was safely in the bedroom.

"Okay," she said slipping out of her heels. "One strange consultation. I'll tell you about it later."

She went to the closet and hefted a big box and three little ones, then went back to the living room, putting the boxes down next to the couch where he couldn't see them. Of course he hadn't noticed that she was carrying something. She'd relied on that.

"How was PT?" she asked, standing before him. His answer would determine whether she sat down right away or not.

He scowled briefly. "Tried," he mumbled without looking at her.

That was House-speak for 'I don't want to talk about it'. She said nothing, going to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. She poured a tall glass of water too, wishing she didn't have to nag him like this.

"James says hi," she said settling in next to him on the couch.

She was pleased when he took the water she offered and gulped half of it down immediately without question.

"He wanted to do something this weekend," she said, careful not to sit too close. "He said he'd call later."

House grunted noncommittally.

Stacy leaned toward him cautiously. If he rebuffed her, if he didn't want to be touched right now, the evening was a wash. If not…

There. He let her lean against him. He was either buzzed enough that he didn't care or this wasn't as bad a day as his demeanor suggested.

"Do you know what today is?" she asked lightly.

House sighed a little. "Yeah. She called me earlier."

"How are they?"

"Mom's fine," he said. "Dad's fine too I guess."

"Good," Stacy said smiling. "Well. Happy birthday."

He grunted, but let her kiss his cheek. Good.

"I got you something," she said.

He glanced curiously at her and she smiled. She reached over the arm of the couch and retrieved one of the little packages.

House's curiosity was definitely piqued. He took the package and started working on the ribbon.

"The kid at the store said this one was very popular. They had trouble keeping them in stock. He said it was one of his favorites and he looked about twelve, so I suppose he was right."

House tore off the wrapping paper and held the game in his hands, a troubled look on his face. Of course he didn't expect her to know one game system from another, but…

"This is a Dreamcast game," he said after a moment. "I don't have a Dreamcast."

Stacy smiled warmly at him and nodded toward the end of the couch. "You do now."

House pushed himself up and tried to look over the end of the couch. He caught sight of a large, wrapped box, smiled, and settled back down, putting his left arm around Stacy and hugging her to him.

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You're welcome," she said, smiling broadly into his shoulder as she slid an arm over his chest and hugged him back. "Happy birthday."

House was momentarily overwhelmed by how much she must still love him. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled a mix of her shampoo and perfume, and he was gone for a moment. God, he still loved her so much. He tried to fight the feeling, but he didn't push her away. This was good. It was okay to feel good for a little while.

Stacy held onto him as long as she thought he could stand, then squeezed him once and pulled away. It was so hard to do but if she did it, she wasn't smothering him. If she made him do it, she wouldn't get him back tonight.

"If you feel like it, I made a reservation for seven at La Dolce Vita," she said tentatively. "You wouldn't have to dress up." She added hastily, "But if you're tired, I can pick something up."

House looked at the game in his lap. His eyes flickered to his leg—he'd been sitting in the same spot since he got home from physical therapy this morning and the ache was gone from his leg and back now. He glanced up at her quickly. She wanted this but she was letting him control the situation. If he said no there wouldn't be a scene. He loved her for the forethought, for not pushing him; and he hated her for that. But maybe it would be nice to get out. His mother had asked him earlier if he got out at all and he'd tried to evade the question, but she'd known. She didn't know how hard it was, though. How could anyone know that.

House took her hand in his and rubbed her palm briefly, a faint smile on his face.

"I'll think about it," he said.


	17. 41

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

This one got all fluffy on me. I don't know how that happened…

* * *

**41**

**December 2000**

Someone was knocking on his door. It was around six p.m. Today, that could only be one person…

"It's open," House called from his position on the couch. He dunked a chip in a bowl of chunky salsa and watched the Eagles and Chargers line up as Wilson let himself in.

House heard Wilson taking off his winter wear.

"Beer's in the fridge," he said. "This game isn't too bad."

But he didn't hear footsteps headed for the kitchen. He glanced up. Wilson wasn't going for the fridge or sitting down to watch the game. He was in his 'you've done something wrong and I want to side with you but my conscience won't let me' pose. Great.

"You weren't at work today," Wilson said. "Cuddy said you called in sick."

"Yeah," House said, bringing a salsa-laden chip to his mouth. "Stomach flu."

Wilson appraised him. "You look fine to me."

House shrugged. "Went away." He prepared another chip.

That seemed to satisfy Wilson, who sat down.

"Just as well," he said. "Someone tied black balloons to your door. And there's this." He produced a tombstone made of poster board with 'Over the Hill' and 'R.I.P.' written on it in black marker, and passed it to House. "I think someone is in charge of doing this to everyone," he said. "Wonder if they get paid extra…"

House grunted and tossed the decoration aside in favor of another chip. "One more 'lordy, lordy, look who's forty' and I _will _puke," he said.

Wilson sniffed a laugh and went to the kitchen for a beer.

"Your mom call?" he asked a moment later, sitting down and reaching for a chip.

"Like clockwork," House said. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Wilson paused, the chip in midair. "She didn't…" he began, amused disbelief on his face. The salsa slithered off of his chip and broke the pause.

House sighed. "She did. Said she couldn't resist." He did his best imitation of his mother. "'I have to. You're only forty once, Greg.' —As if the next three hundred and sixty four days don't count." He nodded toward a slim box with its lid askew that Wilson had been stealing curious glances at. "Wanted to know if I liked the tie."

Wilson was very amused. "And did you, in fact, like the tie?" he asked.

"Loved it," House said, munching on another chip. "My new favorite. I'll wear it every day."

Wilson chuckled. He put his beer down and slapped his knees. "Well, come on, let's go get something to eat."

"Chips, salsa, and beer aren't good enough for you?" House said.

"Not for dinner," Wilson answered.

House grunted. "If I wanted to go out, I would have gone out already," he said, carefully avoiding Wilson.

Wilson knew what this meant: 'Don't take me out because you pity me.'

"I think they do something special for you at Hooters if you tell them it's your birthday," Wilson said. "And if you don't want it, I'll them it's my birthday."

"Julie approves of this?" House asked, eyebrow raised.

"Julie is having a girls' night," Wilson said. "It just happened to fall on your birthday and even if it hadn't, I intend to make the most of it."

"I dunno," House said rubbing his stomach and making a face. "I may be having a relapse."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House. Hooters. Now."

"All right, all right," House said, getting up. "You're awfully eager to ogle college girls tonight."

"And you aren't," Wilson said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. No desire to ogle college girls _or_ eat buffalo wings. You might actually be sick."

"Just don't tell them how old I am," House said as he put his coat on. "That's what makes me ill."

"Twenty-nine never looked so good," Wilson said grinning.

"Shameless flirt," House said, shaking his head with disapproval as he opened the door.

Wilson's grin broadened and he followed House out.


	18. Despair

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Mmmm, classic House/Wilson. Hope you like it! Thanks to you awesome reviewers for reviewing!

* * *

**Despair **

**April 2001**

House entered the bar, dodged a few patrons, and scanned the crowd.

There. In the corner. Of course.

The scene was the same every time Wilson called to say he was already at a bar. House limped toward him.

A beer and two empty shot glasses decorated the table in front of his decidedly morose-looking colleague. Tie hanging loosely around his neck, top two buttons of his shirt undone, collar wrinkled, face pale and haggard, grizzled despite a lack of stubble, he was the picture of misery.

House slid down in the booth with a grunt. It had been a year and he still wasn't used to being on his feet all day. He gently rubbed his mangled thigh through his jeans, suddenly glad Wilson had called him. He could use some alcohol right now.

The waitress took House's order and asked Wilson if he wanted any refills. Wilson shook his head unsteadily and she left.

House waited until his beer arrived to say anything.

"Almost three years," he said. "Must be a record."

"The record's four years eight months," Wilson said without looking up.

"Ah," House said. "Tough one to beat." He sipped his beer slowly, knowing he was going to be driving tonight.

"Have you told her yet?" he asked.

"No," Wilson answered.

"She's going to suspect if you don't come home," House said.

"I called her earlier," Wilson said. "Said I'd be working late."

"Just tell her I fell on my ass again and you had to hold my hand all night," House mumbled into his beer. "She'll believe it."

"Yeah," Wilson said absently.

They both sat quietly for a moment, drinking and not making eye contact.

"Why don't you go ahead and do it?" House asked after a moment, examining the mixed drinks selection as though his life depended on it. "Like ripping a band aid off."

"It doesn't work that way," Wilson said.

House put the drink list down. "Well," he said with a shrug, "you would know."

He caught the waitress as she went by and ordered two glasses of water and a basket of fries.

"So," he said, watching Wilson now as he contemplated his beer bottle, "how many days have you been 'working late' this week?"

"Just last night," Wilson mumbled.

"She pretty?"

"Gorgeous."

"She have a sister?"

Wilson snorted. House caught a faint smile on his lips that vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Cousin?" House continued. "Friend? Not one of those 'I'm using my looks to find my unattractive friend a date' friends but a friend you know she's made out with at a party at least once."

Wilson smiled sadly but still refused to meet House's gaze. "I don't know that much about her," he said into his beer.

"Of course not," House teased. "Always thinking with the wrong head. Never remember your buddy is in need."

This got Wilson's attention. He squinted at the bar. "There's someone," he said nodding his head. "The brunette with the martini."

House leaned out of the booth and glanced quickly at the bar.

"Her?" he asked incredulously when he turned around again. "The devil in the red dress? There is not enough alcohol in this entire place to get me drunk enough to talk to her."

Now Wilson looked at him for the first time.

"You can get her with the puppy eyes," he said, beginning to forget his own situation.

House grinned inwardly as Wilson continued. He still had it.

"Go over there," Wilson advised, "trip and spill her drink—on her if you can—be your bumbling self while you apologize profusely, pay for it as quickly as possible, and limp away." He waved his hands as if parting the Red Sea. "That's all you have to do. Guaranteed hand job—maybe a blow job if you play it right."

House grunted, keeping up the 'my situation is infinitely worse than yours' façade…which wasn't as much of a façade as he would like it to be.

"Pity sex," he said, taking a healthy swig from his beer. "Not my thing."

"Is there any other kind?" Wilson asked rhetorically, sinking back into his own misery.

Drunken despair again. Well. House knew he did drunken despair much better than Wilson ever would.

"Some wingman you are," he muttered.

Wilson glowered at his beer. "I'm doing a good job under the circumstances," he said tightly.

House let that go and began fiddling with a coaster. "You gonna see her again?" he asked.

Wilson sighed. "I don't know," he said. "I really like her—the sex was great—but I hate feeling like this."

"Well," House said, taking up his beer. "There's a cure for that." He took a drink. "Several actually."

"I really didn't want to screw up this time," Wilson said. "Julie is great. She's all I need."

"But not all you want," House finished.

This talk. He'd had this talk before, as giver and recipient. In fact, if he remembered correctly, he'd had this talk before in this particular booth.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least we know you're human. Wouldn't it be hard to find out this late in life you're actually a zombie?" He waited a split second for Wilson to react. There. That upturning of the corner of his mouth. "I mean," he continued, "granted, you do work at a place where you can satisfy your cravings for human flesh easily, but when it comes time to—ooo, fries are here!"

House grinned at the waitress as she set the basket of fries, two plates, and a bottle of ketchup on the table in front of them.

"You just saved him from a long lecture on the virtues of not being a zombie," he said to her.

She smiled awkwardly and asked if they wanted more drinks.

Wilson ordered a beer and another whiskey shot despite the fact that he could barely keep his head off of the table. House declined, eying Wilson warily.

"You're going to make me put plastic on the furniture tonight, aren't you?" he said, grabbing a handful of fries from the basket and hissing as the hot oil burned his hand. "I can see it now."

He waited. Wilson wasn't taking the fries. Damn.

"You better eat some of these," House said around a mouthful, "you're paying for them."

"You don't have to do this, Greg," Wilson said, eyes on his beer again. "Go home. I'm fine here."

"If I leave you here now, you're going to score with that hot number in red and I'm going to have to do this again tomorrow night when your guilt overwhelms you," House said. "American Idol is on tomorrow night. Can't Miss television."

"Lay it on thick, why don't you," Wilson mumbled.

He glanced up when the waitress put his new round under his nose and gratefully did the shot before he began drinking the beer in earnest.

House's eyebrows went up as he stuffed more fries into his mouth. Wilson's guilt level was higher tonight than he'd thought.

"Give me your credit card now so I don't have to dig for it later," House said.

Wilson finished chugging the beer, folded his arms, and rested his head on them. House heard a muffled 'shut up.'

House sighed dramatically and pulled out his wallet, waving the waitress over.

"You're lucky I'm feeing generous tonight," he said while he waited for the check, "or I'd drop your drunk ass off and let Julie scream at you. As it is…I think lunch for a month would even us out."

"House," Wilson muttered into the table, "go away."

"Playing hard to get, eh?" he said as he finished the fries. He smiled. "That never works on me. I'm like an intestinal parasite."

Wilson didn't say anything. Far gone tonight, House reflected. He took the check when it came and left cash on the table, then stood carefully and rounded to Wilson's side.

"Come on," he said shaking Wilson's shoulder, "I can't exactly pick you up anymore."

"Go away," Wilson said again into the table.

"Hey, you called me," House said. "You asked for it."

He yanked Wilson's elbow and Wilson, too drunk to keep his balance, knocked his head against the table and nearly fell out of the booth.

"All right," Wilson said angrily, picking himself up. "Jesus, you're stubborn."

"And that's what you love about me," House said winningly as he offered Wilson his left hand.

Wilson took it grudgingly and the pair of them limped and swayed toward House's car.


	19. Jealousy

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Glad you guys liked the last chapter. :)

* * *

**Jealousy**

**July 1999**

Wilson paused outside of House's room, trying to sober up. He'd give everything away if he went in there grinning like he was now. Unable to pull it off, he found one of the rehab unit's nurses and asked how House's PT session this morning had been. He cursed inwardly as she gave him the report; he'd only wanted his face cleared, not to be depressed. Well. Good thing he hadn't brought champagne.

He knocked on House's door, waited until a polite interval of time had passed, and let himself in.

House was sitting in the room's arm chair with his leg up on the bed. Dressed in his own pajama bottoms, t-shirt, and socks, he would have been out of place if he'd looked at all healthy.

"Hey," Wilson said with carefully-controlled neutrality as he seated himself on the edge of the bed. "How's it going?"

"I'm tired," House muttered. He waved a hand at the room, "of all this. Bored. Ready to go home."

"Should be just a few more days," Wilson said. "You're still weak and your kidney function—"

"I know that," House interrupted irritably. "I can still read even if I can't walk."

"Sorry," Wilson said immediately. "Habit."

"Yeah," House sighed. He glanced up at Wilson from his eyes-on-the-floor sulking position and smiled a little. "Congratulations, by the way," he said.

Wilson leapt up, hands in the air, a disappointed groan on his lips. "Who stole my surprise!" he exclaimed.

House chuckled. "One of the nurses mentioned it," he said. "I think she floats to your department." He did his best to leer at Wilson, lowering his voice suggestively, "She really likes you."

"Who is it?" Wilson asked quickly.

House barked out a laugh and Wilson caught himself.

"I mean, so I can review her status," he said nonchalantly, trying to cover his mistake. "She may want to come to oncology full time."

"Sure," House said rolling his eyes. "That's exactly why you want to know her name. Real smooth, slick."

Wilson waited for House to continue. When he didn't, Wilson asked, "Well? Her name?"

"Damned if I know," House said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "They all blur into one person after a while."

"Fine," Wilson said with affront. "Hold out on me."

"It doesn't occur to you that I might not want to remember their names?" House said testily.

"Like you can forget," Wilson said sitting on the bed again. "But that's okay," he added quickly, holding his hands up. "I'll figure out who it is on my own."

"See if you can get through Christmas with bride number three first," House said derisively. "I'd make a bet with you but I wouldn't want to win it."

"Speaking of," Wilson said, "are you and Stacy still on speaking terms? I didn't see her today."

House hesitated. "I…got angry and said some things I shouldn't have said yesterday," he admitted. "She came by this morning but it wasn't pretty."

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement and sped to a less contentious topic as quickly as he could.

"How is the pain management coming?" he asked.

House tossed his head back and groaned in frustration.

"That well, huh?" Wilson said.

House grunted.

Didn't want to talk about it. Okay. Wilson read that loud and clear.

"So," House said after a moment. "Now that you're a department head, you're going to have even less time to hang out."

"Probably," Wilson acknowledged.

"Does Julie realize how much she's going to lose?" House asked.

Wilson recognized how loaded the question was. "She knows I'm getting a raise and that more money means more responsibility, later hours," Wilson said carefully. "She's okay with that."

"More responsibility for you, more status for her?" House said. "Makes sense."

Wilson shrugged. "She's happy for me."

"Good for her," House said, unable to keep insincerity out of his voice.

"You're not?" Wilson asked.

House half-shrugged. "If you want to make your workday harder and longer, that's your prerogative." He paused and cracked a smile. "Just don't forget the little people when they teach you the secret handshake and give you the key to the executive washroom."

"You could have had it if you'd wanted it," Wilson pointed out.

House sniffed. "Not with my record," he said.

"_Even_ with your record," Wilson said. He shrugged. "You've got the name. The name brings in the donors."

"Look at you," House said. "Got the lingo down already." He sniffed to himself. "When it comes time for you to jump through the ring of fire, let me know. I want to watch."

"Why didn't you take it if you wanted it?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "I didn't want it," he said. "Overachieving isn't my style."

Wilson grinned wryly. "Says the guy with all the renown."

"Jealous?" House asked with raised eyebrows.

"Positively green," Wilson said.

"That can't be good," House said, making a face.

The corner of Wilson's mouth quirked in response.

"Well," House said with finality, "have a drink for me tonight." He held out his hand.

Wilson glanced at House's extended hand with confusion, then up at House who nodded 'go on, take it.'

"Thanks," Wilson said, slightly bewildered, shaking House's hand. "Wish you could be there."

"Yeah," House said, turning his attention back to the television. "So do I."

Wilson paused, eyebrows knitting. "Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked.

House shrugged. "You've got better things to do."

Crap. He was doing it again. The pity party.

Wilson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come on," he said, "don't do this."

"I'm happy for you," House said. "Really, I am."

Wilson couldn't tell if he was being sincere or not. But House wasn't exactly approachable right now. And Wilson understood. He did. It had been a difficult day for House. He and Stacy were still fighting. Wilson's success was a reminder of how much House's life had changed. He understood. He did.

"If you say so," Wilson said carefully. He stood to go. "Well," he said, "I'm going to go."

"Think you can use your new powers to get me out early?" House asked hopefully.

Wilson shrugged and tried to smile. "I'll see what I can do." Of course House knew he had no control over… No. House knew. He was just trying to get a rise…

Wilson turned toward the door, annoyed that his friend wasn't acting like much of a friend.

"Hey," House said, interrupting Wilson's thoughts.

Wilson stopped and turned around.

"You deserved it," House said.

Wilson tried to read his face. He did look sincere this time.

"Thanks," Wilson said. He smiled briefly and let himself out.


	20. Scare

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

A lighter piece with a fluff factor 3 and a squick factor 8. I must have my rude humor. ;)

**WARNING:** If references to certain (particularly female) bodily functions bother you, skip this one.

* * *

**Scare**

**September 1998**

House tapped lightly on the bathroom door. "Stace?" he called. "You all right in there?"

He could vaguely distinguish slight movement and harsh breathing. He had to wait a moment before the answer came, heavy and miserable.

"No."

"Can I come in?" he asked.

He waited for the answer. She hadn't felt well when they'd gotten up and had been in and out of the bathroom since then. He'd been sympathetic, going so far as to crush a few cubes of ice when his offers of fizzy beverages and crackers were refused, but he'd really been more interested in the article he was working on. Now, though, he was starting to worry.

He heard a groan and then, "Why not."

He opened the door and entered, and, well, there was no other way to say it.

"You look like crap."

"Thanks, that's just what I wanted to hear," Stacy said to the floor. She was kneeling in front of the toilet, arms crossed over the bowl with her head resting on them.

"I was going to ask if you were okay but that's obvious," he said. He questioned her briefly about her symptoms. "Nasty bug," he said after his questions were answered. "I'll call something in that'll make you feel better."

"Greg," she said before he could leave. "There's something I have to tell you. I wasn't going to, but now…" She glanced up at him, hesitant and cringing. "I'm late. Four days."

It took House a moment to register what she was telling him. Then he exploded.

"WHAT!"

"God, you're supportive," Stacy said dryly, putting her head down on her arms again.

"But—what about your birth control pills?" House asked quickly.

"I was so busy a few weeks ago that I missed a few days," Stacy said.

"How could you forget!" House nearly shouted.

"Hey, _you_ could've worn a condom," Stacy pointed out.

House threw up his hands, feeling persecuted. "The _one _time I didn't have one with me," he said. "If you'd keep some in your purse it wouldn't be a problem."

"You could've brought one," Stacy mumbled to the floor, "or not cornered me in my office at lunch every day that week."

"You weren't complaining then," House said slyly.

Stacy looked up and glared meanly at him, paled, and put her head back down.

"Okay," House said, beginning to pace. "Here's what we'll do. You're vomiting, you're dehydrated. We'll go to the hospital and get you some fluids and a blood test."

"No!" Stacy said vehemently. "I'm not doing that. I _hate_ having blood drawn—and you're horrible at it. Go get one of those home kits."

House shook his head. "It's too early," he said. "Urine tests aren't sensitive enough to detect a low hCG serum level and it would be low at this point."

Stacy groaned. "Don't blood tests take a while to come back?" she asked pitifully.

"Not if you know the techs well enough," House said.

"It's probably just a virus," she said miserably. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"Then let me take a look," House said. "If you're about to start, I'll be able to tell."

She glanced up at him. "Um, no," she said.

"It's not like I'm not down there often enough," House said with a smile.

"Yes, but you're not my gynecologist," Stacy pointed out. She shuddered. "Eww."

"Come on," House cajoled. "A Q-tip would do it." He held up his right forefinger and smiled again. "Or this."

Stacy's withering glare wasn't exactly encouraging.

"You don't have to enjoy it," House said rolling his eyes. He rifled around in a drawer, came up with a Q-tip, and started twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Y'know, _you _could do it. I don't even have to be here." He thrust the Q-tip upward in the air and said, "As far up as it can go, swab around, and if it's brown or rusty, no little Greg and Stacy juniors are on the way." He paused. "Or we can go to the hospital," he said with a shrug. "It's up to you."

Stacy sighed heavily. "I already checked," she said. "Clear. No brown. Nothing. Just clear."

"What did you use?" House asked immediately.

"Toilet paper," Stacy answered.

House shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't work. Gotta get all the way up there." He handed her the Q-tip.

Stacy glanced at the door and back to him. House made a disappointed face.

"You wanted to watch?" Stacy asked, disbelieving and somewhat indignant.

House shrugged. "Just supervising the test…" he said. Stacy gave him a doubtful look. "And it's kinda sexy," he added in a mumble.

"Out," she said.

"Okay, okay," House said as he left, cracking the door behind him. "Puritan," he called from the hall.

"Creep," Stacy called back.

"You like it," House called.

"Shut up, Greg."

House waited for a moment, then called, "What's taking so long?"

He waited for an answer. Nothing. "Stace?"

He was about to knock on the door frame and stick his head in when he heard "OhthankGod" from behind the door.

"I hope that's a negative," House said before he entered.

Stacy, now seated on the toilet, wordlessly offered him the Q-tip.

He took it and sniffed the used end. "Yep, that's negative. You're low on iron too." He grinned: he could literally see Stacy's stomach turn.

"Disgusting," she muttered, swallowing thickly.

"Of course, this could be evidence of spotting," House said as he tossed the Q-tip in the trash. "A blood test would confirm or deny our little experiment."

Stacy groaned.

"All right, all right," House said, giving in though he knew he'd be apprehensive until he was certain she'd started her period. "I'll call in something to make you feel better." He bent down and kissed the top of her head. "I'm glad we're not pregnant," he said softly, his hand lingering in her hair.

"So am I," she said, leaning in to his chest.

"Really?" he asked cautiously, a slight tremor in his voice.

"I'm too old," she said. "Wouldn't be any good at it."

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Are you?"

"Yeah."

And he _was_ sure. Yes. He was.

"Greg?"

"What?"

"You better move now or I'm gonna throw up on you."

House quickly did as he was told. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes," he said, closing the door behind him.

He didn't wait for an answer.


	21. Sneezy

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Lighter fare for a Monday morning. If you can't understand House, just imagine what he sounded like in Autopsy, from which this is clearly ripped off. ;)

* * *

**Sneezy**

**August 1997**

"Feeling any better?" Stacy asked cheerfully as she went round the couch, dressed for work but with her hair wrapped in a towel.

House snapped out of the daze he'd been in for the past several minutes and blinked heavily, not immediately recognizing her. Then he sneezed forcefully.

"Nohbd," he groaned.

Stacy shook her head and handed him a Kleenex.

"You're such a baby," she said.

House wiped his nose and tossed the tissue into an overflowing trash can next to him.

"I ambe not," he said, breathing through his mouth. "I jus't can'dt bhreathe."

"I think doctors can do something about this…" Stacy said, tapping her finger against her chin as she pretended to contemplate the issue. "What is it? Allergy shots? Something like that?"

"Dose dings hurtd," House said. "Amd dey dake up to year to work."

"Okay, I only understood about four of the words you just said," Stacy said.

House tried to glare at her but sneezed again instead. Stacy handed him another tissue.

"Maybe you should have started them a year ago," she advised superiorly.

"Itd's notd always dis bad," House said. "Itd varies frhom yearh do yearh."

"I figured that out, thanks," Stacy said. She patted his shoulder. "Come on. You just have time to shower and get dressed."

House groaned dramatically and flung his right arm over his eyes. And sneezed again.

Stacy dropped the box of Kleenex on his chest and he grunted.

"You can't skip work just because your nose is running," she said.

House wiped his nose and carelessly tossed the tissue aside. Stacy made a disgusted face and picked it up with the tips of her fingers, depositing it on the heap in the trash.

"No," House said from under his arm, "butd I can skip work if I haben't sleptd in two days." He moved his arm and glanced dazedly up at her. "De hospidal would be liable if I scrhewed up, rightd?"

Stacy conceded that point with an annoyed eye roll and nod.

"Welb den, I don'td tsee whatd de prhoblemn is," House said. He had a tissue ready and waiting when he sneezed this time.

"You should use those more than once," Stacy muttered distastefully as he slammed his fist into the pile of used tissues to compact them before adding the one he'd just sneezed in.

House ignored her.

"The problem is that you're not actually sick," she said.

"Butd I ahm miserhable," House said. "Dat countds."

Stacy glowered at him, clearly unimpressed.

"If you wherhe a padtientd, would you wantd me sneezingh all overh you?" House asked.

"And if your boss finds out?" Stacy asked. "You're already on thin ice with her."

"Ifd she finhds out," House said, "she'ds goingh to finhd out dat I also hadh a feverh and ahs an infecdtious diseahse specialistd conshiderhed myselfh highly condtagious."

"How many times have you used that one on her?" Stacy asked wryly.

"You don'tdh wanhtd to know," House said.

Stacy gave him her most disapproving glare. "Fine," she said. "But I'm not going to feel sorry for you when you get fired."

"Faihr enough," House said. He glanced up at her suddenly. "Heyh, whatd dime is itd?"

Stacy consulted the television. "Almost six," she said.

"Goodhy," House said and punched two tablets out of a foil packet, gulping them down with half a glass of water. "Itd's notd as if dey worhk," he said as she observed him, "butd you can'dt sahy I'mb notd tryinhg."

Stacy conceded the point with a twist of her mouth.

"You're going to lie here all day and watch television?" she asked.

"Nobd," House said. "I'mb gohing do drhy do sleep—" a sneeze cut him off, "—whenh de andihisdamine wears off."

"But you just took an antihistamine," Stacy said.

House nodded and sneezed. "You dsee my prhoblem."

"Try taking a bath," Stacy said. "The steam might help."

"Orh I couldh dry a mugh of hodt wader andh a towel," House said.

"What?"

"Neber mind."

Stacy sighed. "Fine," she said. "But no sympathy when you get fired."

"Why do you dink dat's—" he sneezed, "do inevidable?"

"Because I know you," Stacy said. "I have to go finish getting ready for work." She glared sternly at him. "Enjoy your day off," she said.

"Endoy dour unclogded nadal paddeges," House replied and sneezed.

"What?"

"Neber mind."


	22. Man or Mouse?

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Hope you guys like! I know House/Wilson scenes are in demand, but this came to me first. (I personally love cats and my wonderful kitty is asleep next to me on the couch as I write this, but I don't see House being a big fan of a cat in this situation. So, no cat hate intended!)

* * *

**Man or Mouse?**

**March 1999**

"Tell me again _how_ long it's going to be here?" House asked. He glanced nervously at the hissing ball of fur cornered in their apartment.

"She's a she," Stacy corrected, making a kissy face at the cat, "and just for the weekend. Sam gets back Sunday night and she couldn't leave her alone because she has some kind of ear infection." She shook the bottle of medicine she was holding to emphasize her point.

"Can't a vet take care of it better than we can?" House asked. He tried cautiously to reach for the cat and snatched his hand back just in time to avoid being scratched. "It doesn't like me," he said.

"You're scaring her," Stacy admonished. She knelt down and slowly extended her hand toward the cat, saying "kitty, kitty, kitty," in a soothing voice. She, too, barely avoided being scratched.

"Okay," Stacy said straightening up, "she's an evil beast from hell. But we still have an obligation to take care of her."

"You're cleaning the litter box," House said quickly. He made a face at the cat. "I'll make sure it's fed."

Stacy rolled her eyes. "I'll take care of the litter box _and_ make sure she's fed. She'd starve if I left her alone with you."

House threw up his hands in defense. "Hey, I didn't agree to this," he said. "It was forced on me."

Stacy signed a long-suffering sigh. "Can't you be useful and hold her while I give her this medicine?" she asked.

The cat swiped at his leg and House took an anxious step back.

"You know cat scratch fever is real, don't you?" he said nervously. "I'm not kidding. So is toxoplasmosis, which is transmitted through cat feces. It can be fatal. And who knows what kind of infection it has. Probably worms too." He paused and turned to her. "Is this friendship really worth dying for?"

Stacy glowered at him. "Greg, are you going to hold the cat down or not?" she asked.

House glared at her and leaned forward. "Sit," he commanded. He reached tentatively toward the animal, which growled and tried to scratch him again. "Down!" He reached toward her again. "Stay." The cat hissed loudly and he snatched his hand back. "Play dead."

Stacy watched the exchange without amusement. "Greg, you're bigger than she is," she said wearily, "just grab her."

"It's going to scratch me," House said, trying to grab the cat and jumping back when she swiped at him again. "I can tell."

"I'll be sure to kiss it and make it better later," Stacy said sarcastically, quickly losing patience. "Now will you hold the damn animal down?"

"Why do _I_ have to hold it down?" House whined. "Why can't I give it the medicine? That's my _job_."

"And you're very good at it," Stacy said, "but right now I need you to hold the cat down."

"Can't we wait until it goes to sleep?" House asked.

"Greg…"

"I really don't wanna."

"You really gotta."

House made a childish sneering face at Stacy.

He turned back to the cat. "It doesn't _look_ sick," he said. "I'm sure it'll be fine for a few days." Before Stacy could object, he added, "And if it really is sick, it'll start acting sick. _Then_ we can sneak up on it."

"Well, now I know why you get sued so often," Stacy said.

"You know, the lawsuit jokes are getting kind of old."

"So are the lawsuits."

House sneezed suddenly. "I may be allergic to cats," he said wiping his nose. "Better not touch it. I could break out—hives are _really_ itchy and gross—or stop breathing. Then you'd feel really bad."

"Greg, I know you're not allergic to cats," Stacy said.

"Dammit, that _was_ you," House said to himself.

Stacy sighed and thrust the bottle to him. "Fine," she said. "_I'll_ hold her down and _you_ give her the medicine. Can you read the instructions or do I have to do that for you too?"

"Can you read the instructions or do I have to do that for you too?" House parroted nastily. "You sound really bitchy."

"With good reason," Stacy said. She squared on the cat. "Ready?"

House scratched his head, reading the label. "How much am I supposed to give it?"

Stacy took the bottle from him, grabbed the cat by the scruff of her neck, pinned her, tilted her head and gave her the medicine. The cat hissed and growled, shook her head getting medicine on Stacy, and bolted once she was let go.

House almost choked, he was laughing so hard. Stacy brushed cat hair off her slacks and wiped her hand on his t-shirt.

"Hey!" House objected, trying to duck out of the way.

"_You're_ cleaning the litter box," Stacy said and stormed toward the bathroom to wash the cat's medicine off.

House watched her go, then exploded into laughter again. Toxoplasmosis? Totally worth it.


	23. Small Talk

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Sorry for the wait! Holiday traveling, etc. Regarding this chapter, I hadn't expected to include a duckling, but lo, this chapter suggested itself. Set after House drops his bomb on Cameron during the date scene in Love Hurts.

* * *

**Small Talk**

**April 2005**

"…so, what do we do now?" Cameron asked. She hadn't been nervous about tonight—not really—but after he'd…said…what he'd said… Well. She began picking at the corner of her napkin.

House's eyes flitted uncomfortably to hers for a moment. "Do?" he asked absently.

"Talk about," Cameron clarified, feeling foolish and naive. New dress, new shoes, new lace panties… She sighed inwardly. At least she got to wear them out. "Since we're clear on that other thing," she muttered.

"That other thing, yeah," House echoed.

He took a drink of water and fixed a blank stare on the area just beyond her right shoulder. When his insides stopped seizing, he imagined he'd feel much better. He hoped it happened before the food arrived or he'd need to go to the bathroom to double up on his current med level.

"You…" Cameron began after an awkward pause. She stopped and cleared her throat. "When you took me to the monster truck show and I asked you if you had ever been married, you said you had lived with someone. What was she like?" She caught herself. "I mean, if that's okay. I guess we could talk about movies if you want."

"Not particularly," House said. But did he really want to talk to Allison—to _Cameron_—about her? He didn't want to think about her, but if he dodged the question Cameron would eventually dig it out of him. But talking meant thinking and that was just… He didn't know what to do…. And then—there. He had it.

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "You were married," he said. "You know what that's like."

"What what's like?" Cameron asked, a mix of playfulness and anxiety in her voice. House could mean anything by that. "Being married?"

"Being intensely connected with someone," House said. He paused. "I guess you have that if you get married," he added. "Though Wilson presents a convincing counter-argument."

Cameron smiled. "We did," she said simply. "You and she…?"

House looked down at his lap. "Yeah," he said. "It was intense."

"What happened?" Cameron asked curiously before she could think. She glanced down apologetically as soon as she'd said it.

House let it go. He had to get this out or she'd be curious.

"People grow together," he said after a moment, fingering his fork, not looking up at her. "And people grow apart."

"And you grew apart?" Cameron asked, wishing he didn't look so uncomfortable.

House prickled. "That's the implication," he said tightly. Much more of this and he'd have to excuse himself.

"I'm sorry," Cameron said sincerely.

She was doing that—_thing_—she did again. The save the world thing. Good. This he could handle. This wasn't Stacy.

"You had nothing to do with it," House muttered.

Cameron took affront at his tone before she reminded herself that this was hard for him.

"Do you miss her?" she asked tentatively.

House tensed again, feeling his innards relax simultaneously. He could deal with annoying. This was good.

"Do you miss him?" House asked immediately.

The side of Cameron's mouth quirked upward briefly. He was good at this. "I do," she said.

House avoided her eyes but made a motion to effect of, 'well, so do I.'

They sat through an awkward silence for a few moments before Cameron looked up, smiled, and said with poise and confidence:

"So what's your favorite movie?"


	24. Glass

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

House/Wilson for the House/Wilson fans. :) I hope this came out okay. It was difficult to write for some reason.

To those of you worried about/annoyed by Cameron – I don't like her and don't write her very well, nor do I ship House/Cam in any way, so don't worry about this fic becoming some House/Cam love fest. Not gonna happen. :)

* * *

**Glass**

**January 2000**

Wilson tapped on the door to House's office and waited a moment before he opened it. He squinted, trying to see through the dark room. Winter meant sundown at 5:30 and if House was sulking, he was probably sulking with the lights off.

"House?" he called. "You in there?"

Wilson heard a small noise like someone breathing in suddenly and then, belatedly, "Yeah."

'You okay?' he wanted to ask. The words were on his tongue and he barely stopped himself. Instead, he decided to explain his presence.

"Stacy called me," he said, leaning against the door frame. He could tell by the direction of the voice he heard that House was on his couch. "She said you told her I was taking you home today and wondered what was taking so long. She freaked out when I told her I hadn't seen you all day. What's going on?"

He waited. The room breathed quietly for a moment before House answered.

"Nothing."

Something in House's tone told Wilson that if he waited a few more seconds, House would elaborate. He had no trouble doing that.

"I didn't want to go home today," House said. "There's nothing wrong with that."

He sounded strange to Wilson. As if speaking required immense effort. Wilson knew he didn't have PT today…. Maybe this first week back at work was even harder than he let on. Wilson knew it had been hard—even with working half days and having no pressure on him to perform, Stacy said he had become increasingly withdrawn. He went to sleep earlier and slept later. She didn't know what to do. She'd asked him to keep an eye on House for her. Clearly she was troubled, but he could tell that she was just waiting for the right time to get out at this point. Unless he had seriously misjudged her, she'd be gone before the month was over. House seemed to know too. His behavior of late made more sense in light of that. If Stacy was waiting for him to settle into work again before she left, then the more trouble he had, the longer she stayed. But Wilson didn't think that House wanted her to stay.

"She's worried about you," Wilson said as casually as he could manage. He was worried too, but he couldn't let House know.

"So call her and tell her I fell asleep on my couch and you didn't have the heart to wake me up," House mumbled irritably, "and both of you stop bothering me."

Wilson took a tentative step into the dark room. "You sound strange," he said cautiously. "Something wrong?"

"No."

_Forgive me if I don't believe you_, Wilson thought with annoyance. "Would you turn on a light?" he asked.

"I was asleep," House said testily. "If you leave right now, I _might_ just be able to get _back_ to sleep."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Wilson asked. Because he knew something was going on. This wasn't just House wanting to avoid Stacy right now. He was acting avoidant. Warning signs flashed in Wilson's mind.

"I already did," House growled. "Go away."

_Wrong answer_.Wilson grunted and flipped the overhead light switch, flooding the room with florescent brightness. House cursed loudly and covered his eyes, but Wilson was much more interested in what he saw on the floor next to the couch. So _that_ was what was going on.

He crossed the room and picked up it up. An empty syringe. Outrage, fear, and concern mixed on his face into what he assumed was a fairly ugly expression.

"What's this?" he demanded, looking down at House. House appeared to be all right—except for the small brown line of dried blood on his left forearm.

"What's what?" House asked innocently, hand still over his eyes.

"Don't play dumb," Wilson snapped.

House squinted through his fingers. Oh. That.

"B12," he said, putting his hand back over his eyes. "I was feeling a little run down earlier."

"Nice try," Wilson said, having spotted the syringe's package in the trash can, "but you've got to hide the evidence better than this." He bent down to retrieve it.

He let out a low whistle as he read the label, then looked over at House, who seemed incredibly annoyed that Wilson had discovered his secret. But more than that, he looked tired and drugged. Which was to be expected. Wilson did his best not to yell.

"What did you do to yourself that you needed fifty milligrams of Demerol?" he asked.

"That's not mine," House muttered.

"Right," Wilson said, "and the dried blood on your arm isn't yours either."

House glanced at his arm and sighed angrily. "I slipped," he said. "That's all. The sidewalks are icy."

"What were you doing outside?" Wilson asked.

"Walking," House said flatly.

"Did you fall on it?" Wilson asked. They both knew exactly what 'it' was.

"No," House said tersely. "Other side. Just a few bruises but they hurt like hell and I wanted to sleep. I don't want you here and I don't want her here and I don't want to go home, I'm fine, go away."

"How long ago was this?" Wilson asked.

House let out a frustrated groan. "Will you leave me alone?"

"No," Wilson said. "Answer my question."

"Few hours," House mumbled. "I'm _fine_."

"You should have said something," Wilson said. "You need to be checked out."

"I checked myself out," House said. "Only a few bruises."

"That's a lot of Demerol for 'only a few bruises,'" Wilson pointed out. "Vicodin isn't working for you anymore?"

"I'm tired," House said. "I wanted to sleep."

"Have you done this before?" Wilson asked.

"No," House said.

"So you didn't want to go home but—" he paused, "_what_ were you doing outside?"

"Try to get home by myself for once without you and Stacy and the rest of the world hanging on my shoulder treating me like I'm made of glass," House snapped. "I'm fine. I can take care of myself."

"You call this taking care of yourself?" Wilson said angrily. "What if you had hurt yourself? What then? Wait in the snow until someone comes along and hope you don't freeze to death? You're that prideful?"

"That didn't happen," House snarled. "I'm fine." He paused. "If you're so damn concerned about my well-being, fetch me a blanket so I don't catch my death of cold here in my office."

Wilson sighed. He was so difficult. "Come on," he said. "Get up. Let me take a look at you and then I'll take you home."

"I don't want to go home," House said adamantly. "If she finds out I slipped she'll stay at least another month."

Wilson was silent for a moment. "You don't want that?" he asked.

"All she's trying to do is make herself feel less guilty," House said. "Set me up with my old job, make sure I can get around on my own, and then she's gone." He sniffed angrily. "Well, she should've left a long time ago if that's why she's staying."

Wilson was silent again. He had no idea what he should do.

"I don't love her anymore," House said after a moment. "And she doesn't love me."

Wilson realized House's eyes were on him, pleading their case. _Don't make me do this_, they said.

Wilson was momentarily taken aback. Wow. He was serious.

"Okay," Wilson said after a while. "Let me make sure you're okay and I'll leave you alone."

"I'm fine," House mumbled. He waved his arms around. "See? Awake, alert, pissed off, fine."

Wilson stood still for a moment, trying to decide which course of action was in House's best interest. He rubbed the back of his neck indecisively. What to do…

"All right," he said at length. "I'll call Stacy and let her know you're okay—" House started to protest "—I won't tell her about this," Wilson said quickly. "But I can't promise she won't come down here. I'll get you a sandwich from the cafeteria and then I'm going home. That gives you time to decide if there's anything you need to tell me." He pointed a finger at House and said seriously, "If I find out you're lying to me, I'll bother the hell out of you for the next year. Deal?"

House made a face, but agreed. "Deal."

Wilson eyed him for a few more seconds to hammer his point home.

House sighed angrily. "Go!" he snapped.

Wilson kept an eye on him just a little longer before he turned around, flipped the light off, and closed the door.


	25. Helpless

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Glad you guys are still enjoying. I really appreciate your reviews. :)

**WARNING: **A good deal of course language in this scene. House is angry. House curses when he's angry. The language earns its T rating.

* * *

**Helpless**

**August 1999**

He really didn't want to do this. But he didn't have a choice.

"Stace," House whispered harshly.

Her breathing was soft and even, the room was quiet and dark—real darkness: he'd almost forgotten what that was like—with just a splash of moonlight through the blinds, and his bladder was going to burst if he didn't urinate soon. He hated to wake her up—this was probably the first sound sleep she'd had in over a month—but he couldn't make it to the bathroom by himself and he didn't know where the urinal was. Dammit.

He hadn't pictured this being part of his first night home.

He'd been fantasizing about soft sheets, a wide bed, no interruptions, the smell of home—just his smell and her smell laced with light scents of food and soap and leather and perfume and cologne and none of that antiseptic trying and failing to cover the smells of hundreds of other sick and dying people—and sex. Maybe sex. And being alone, truly alone: no one watching, no one calculating. Somehow he'd entertained the foolish notion that he'd be better when he got home: not as dependent, not so helpless. _Stupid_, he told himself. He knew a change of location didn't mean a change in anything but location. But still, he hadn't thought about this, having to wake her up because of his weak kidneys, his weak body, his busted leg. Couldn't make it through the night without having to…

"Stacy," he said again, this time more loudly. He should move, he should sit up and turn on a light so he wouldn't startle her, but the control he had over his bladder was tenuous right now—if he tried to move…well, he wouldn't think about that.

"Stacy," he said at normal volume.

He felt her move, first slowly, just barely stirring. "Hmm?" God, she'd been deeply asleep. Dammit. Damn this body. Then before he could stay her name again, she bolted upright, turned the light on, and was inches from his face. Worried. Scared.

"What's wrong?" she asked quickly.

"Nothing—nothing," House said. "I just—really need to go to the bathroom, but I can't—" he made a gesture to the effect of 'I can't get up' and sighed, "I'm sorry I woke you up."

Hot shame crept up the back of his neck at her expression: she was relieved. _Relieved_. Relieved that it wasn't something else. Goddammit.

"No, no," she said. _It's all right_, her eyes told him, _I'm glad you're all right_. She was out of bed in an instant. "Do you need to get up?" she asked.

"I guess not," House said. His neck was on fire. This was so much worse than wetting the bed as a child. So much worse. The idea of peeing in their bed repulsed him…but he couldn't get up. He'd held it too long—if he moved… "I—um—we brought home a urinal, right?"

"It's not on the floor next to you?" Stacy asked.

"I don't—" But she had rounded the bed before he could answer.

"Oh, crap, I'm sorry—I think I left it in the living room," she said, darting toward the door. "I'll be right back."

So awkward. He hadn't imagined this first night being so awkward. Even with what had happened and the way he felt…not _this_ awkward.

She returned, and understanding without him having to say anything, left again.

He stared at the ceiling. This was home, but _this_ wasn't home. For the millionth time in the last month, he wished he could get up and complete this simple task by himself. Shit, he was still working on getting across a room by himself; he couldn't do this. Might as well be in a damned diaper.

She was back again and all he could was lie there, trying not to listen to sounds emanating from the bathroom: liquid on liquid, the flush, sink faucet and soap on plastic. Then washing her hands. Two a.m. and not a damned thing he could do about any of it. All he could do was feel how hot his face had gotten: anger, shame, humiliation. Couldn't make it through one night by himself.

Stacy returned from the bathroom before he was aware of her. He started when she spoke.

"You look flushed, honey," she said with poorly-concealed worry. "Do you feel like you have a fever?"

He glanced in her direction. That damned plastic thing.

"No," he said tightly. "No fever."

She was silent. He glanced back at her. The way she was looking at him: she wasn't sure if he was telling the truth. He knew she'd been nervous about him coming home with only her to take care of him. But dammit, she shouldn't have to be.

"I just—" he began, trying to explain. He didn't know how to say it. Why was this so hard? "You—shouldn't—" He dropped his hands on his face. He couldn't look at her. "It's not right."

Stacy smiled, crossed the room to put the container within his reach and carefully sat down next to him, cupping his cheek with her hand.

"You're embarrassed," she said matter-of-factly.

He dropped his eyes: yes.

She leaned down to kiss him on the lips. Light and close-mouthed, but lingering and undeniably passionate.

"You shouldn't be," she said.

House looked up at her, searching her eyes. "Wouldn't you be?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, standing up, "but you still shouldn't be."

"I hate this," House said.

"I know," Stacy said. She paused. Then, with an expression he couldn't begin to fathom, added, "I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry what?_ he wanted to ask. _I'm sorry you're embarrassed _or _I'm sorry you have to go through this_ or _I'm sorry I screwed up your leg_? But she was going around the bed again and was next to him before he could say or do anything. It was so easy for her to do that: those fifteen or so steps. Five seconds for her, five minutes for him.

He set his jaw before he realized she was watching him.

"It's okay, Greg," she said. "Let it go."

_Let _what_ go?_ he wanted to shout. _What?_

But she kissed his cheek, turned the lamp off, and settled against him: close but not too close.

He heard her fall asleep, his face still burning in the darkness.


	26. Fireworks

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

I think this may be the last installment of this little fic. It has a tone of finality to it that I like and I feel that this is the appropriate place to end (right now anyway). Thanks very much to everyone who has reviewed this fic or discussed it with me. Your support has been invaluable.

This particular chapter goes out to Auditrix because it came directly from a conversation I had with her, and, I feel, would not otherwise have come.

R.E.M.'s song lyrics belong to them and the snippet of Eliot belongs to whoever holds that copyright. Cheers.

* * *

**Fireworks**

**New Year's Eve 2006**

_This flower is scorched, this film is on  
On a maddening loop, these clothes  
These clothes don't fit us right  
I'm to blame, it's all the same  
It's all the same_

_You come to me with a bone in your hand  
You come to me with your hair curled tight  
You come to me with positions  
You come to me with excuses  
Ducked out in a row  
You wear me out  
You wear me out_

_We've been through fake-a-breakdown  
Self hurt, plastics, collections  
Self help, self pain, EST, psychics, fuck all  
I was central, I had control, I lost my head  
I need this, I need this_

_A paper weight, junk garage, winter rain, a honey pot  
Crazy, all the lovers have been tagged  
A hotline, a wanted ad  
It's crazy what you could've had_

_It's crazy what you could've had  
I need this, I need this_

—R.E.M., "Country Feedback"

_I sat upon the shore  
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me  
Shall I at least set my lands in order? _

_London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down _

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina  
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow  
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie  
_These fragments I have shored against my ruins  
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.  
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. _

_Shantih shantih shantih_

—T.S. Eliot, _The Waste Land_

House sat quietly on the couch in his living room. Both feet planted on the floor, leaning forward and slightly to the left in what had become a natural position, his left elbow was pressed against his thigh as he cupped his chin and stroked his scraggly not-quite-beard with his left hand. A four-by-six photo, one of the few that had survived the purge, ran smooth and glossy against the rough contours of his right hand.

He loved this picture of her because she was looking away from the camera, obviously more interested in something unseen to her left than in the drunken idiot clinging to her and grinning stupidly at the camera. Her left hand lightly touched his left arm—was it really the same left arm that cradled his head now? It couldn't be—which was draped over her shoulder and threatening to pull her down if she allowed it to. He had that dumb, hollow-eyed sleepy-happy look he got when he'd had too much to drink after a long shift, and the beer sloshing out of the transparent plastic cup in his right hand plus the visible stain on his dark t-shirt told him that this was taken during some backyard bar-b-que affair in the summer.

The photograph was in black and white; he had to think about that time in his life to come up with the reason why the photo was in black and white. Some artsy-fartsy friend of Stacy's had taken it as a snapshot and given it to her—probably, he recalled thinking, because that friend thought it captured her soul or some other sort of nonsense while also containing a visible reminder of just how ape-like her current boyfriend was. He'd been jealous then. They'd probably had a fight over it: he insisting the photographer was coming on to her and she insisting the photographer was just being friendly. It had probably ended in great sex after a day or so of glum mutual silent treatment—just long enough for each of them to prove they were right. He remembered many of the fights—most of them petty and stupid—but he remembered all of the make-up sex, all of it great. They'd been so good together.

But that wasn't why he loved this picture. He loved it because it contained a part of her that he'd never had when they were together. Whatever she was looking at so solemnly and with such interest to her left, it was something he had never possessed. That meant it was still accessible to him: he could still get it, the part of her that he hadn't lost because he couldn't lose something he'd never had in the first place.

Fireworks boomed in the distance and streaked the sky beyond his window pink and blue for a moment before they faded.

Fourth of July. Of course. This photo was probably taken at a Fourth of July party. 1998 or 1999. It still felt like yesterday, as near and as far as yesterday always was.

It was New Year's Eve now. He'd blown his second chance with her already. So stupid of him to let her figure out that he'd nicked her counseling folder.

She was with Mark. Still. But barely. House knew the signs of her falling out of love—or slipping into contempt, or whatever. He could already see Mark becoming just a memory…if she let that happen.

He knew Mark didn't possess that part of her captured in the photograph. How could anyone possess that part of her?

He could, he thought, if he only knew how.

His thumb ran of its own volition over the curve of her face. She was still so beautiful. She would always beautiful in the fixed photograph, but she was still so breathtaking and tantalizing in the flesh. The way she moved in clothes that clung too closely for his comfort, the way they were constantly vying to be one step ahead of each other, the sparks. The sparks.

He couldn't take it, having her around. He wanted her to leave so he could forget her again. He had enough pills and booze to do the trick, but as long as she was still here, still moving and talking and beautiful, he was still in the icy-hot painful jumble of emotion. He wanted the cool stream of memory—something he could turn off at will, or at least quiet and soothe and blur.

The idea of drinking in a photograph had always struck him as clichéd—something that everyone spoke of doing but no one actually did—but he was dead sober, having declined Wilson's New Year's Eve invitation in favor of being alone for a while, and this felt more like drinking than pouring liquor down his throat ever had.

In fact, he didn't want a drink. He didn't want the gentle buzz of a pair of Vicodin. And he didn't want the grating hurt that thinking about her always caused, but he also didn't want to put the photo away.

He vaguely recalled finding it months after she had left—it had fallen into some drawer after their fight and had survived the purge, the move, and the rearrangement of his earthly possessions in a new dwelling—and he recalled the blow he felt when he found it and the things he did to ease the impact, but he hadn't torn it up, hadn't burned it, hadn't done anything to it: no framing, no memorializing. It had gone back into the drawer and he found it again and again, often when he least expected it.

Today he'd found it for the first time since she'd been back in his life, and instead of making him rage, it made him feel an overwhelming calm. Yes. That was how he felt now: calm. He hadn't felt that way without the aid of chemicals in a long time. It was pleasant, like death. He could rest here forever, if only he could keep his mind from running away with him.

But it wasn't carrying him off right now. He knew he could never have that part of her in the photograph, yet he would always have it—in four-by-six form—and it was indestructible. A kind of Zen-like peace filled him.

Slowly, carefully, lovingly he put the photo down. He studied it for a moment more against the backdrop of the coffee table before he unfolded himself and lay down on the couch, muscles sighing.

Still calm, still peaceful, he reached toward the lamp and turned it off, flooding the room with darkness…until red and green flashes burst against the sky as if they had always been there, and in less than a second, were gone.


End file.
